


Siren's Call

by ragnar



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragnar/pseuds/ragnar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life at sea is unfamiliar to Connor. Its vice and virtues alien and oftentimes baffling. He trusts Faulkner to guide him in his new maritime experiences, showing him the good and bad of a life bonded to the wide oceans. Through his new captaincy of the mighty Aquila, Connor comes face to face with a unique breed of criminal called the pirate. Through Faulkner , through experiences of his own, and through the involvement of one Captain Rana Demir - better known as "the Barbary Banshee" - he will come to realize that not only is the life of a pirate far from a black and white experience,  but the toll it takes on those strong enough to see it through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Ornery Wench

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for bearing with me on this. This is a story I've been working on since about November, so a lot of thought's been put into it. I finally decided to share through the push of some friends. So I hope you enjoy! I have some awesome stuff in store for this little tale of mine. 
> 
> As of right now, there'll be an update every Saturday!

Siren’s Call

_I: An Ornery Wench_

1775

All was still that early morning.

A considerable fog on the horizon, but nothing the esteemed Captain Brennan hadn’t navigated before. In his less-than-humble opinion, he’d tamed these open seas, fought its fiercest foes and protected His Majesty’s various bouts of precious cargo from unimaginable threats, foreign and domestic. Captain Brennan considered himself _quite_ eligible for an appointment to Admiralship, but that was just him.

Captain Brennan liked to rouse himself early in the morning to get a status reports from his various officers. It kept his ship at the top of its game and his crew in shipshape.

“This fog makes it difficult to see past two points, Captain,” said Midshipman Chubb. A young, willing lad of 16, eager to learn the ways of maritime life. “Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?”

“The West Indies are simple to navigate, Mr. Chubb,” replied Captain Brennan, eyes peeled into the shaded distance. “I have no doubt we are exactly where we need to be.”

The HMS _Chastity_ was one of the prides of the Royal Navy. She’d never lost a firefight, and any precious cargo under its decks had always been delivered safely to its destination. No, Captain William Brennan wasn’t the least bit worried that early, foggy morning. In fact, he was quite content. In a month’s time, he would be taking a bit of shore leave to visit his dear wife Imogene and their son, Nathaniel.

“Sir?” Chubb’s telescope was pointed north, into the thick mass of fog. For  the life of him he could have sworn he saw a dark shape out in the expanse of the fog bank. But he also acknowledged that it might be his nerves playing tricks on him again.  He still had yet to get his bearings at sea. All this rocking and wide open ocean was quite nauseating.

“Do you see something?”

The young Midshipman glanced nervously at the Captain, unsure of what he may or may not have seen, terrified of making an error of judgment. “I ─ It was only for a moment. I thought I saw a shape, is all, sir.”

“Oh?” Captain Brennan trusted his instincts in situations like these, and nothing seemed amiss. Nonetheless, he listened intently to the quiver in his midshipman’s voice before summoning a second opinion. “Mr. Courtenay!”

“Sir!” Midshipman James Courtenay bounced up to his side.

Folding his arms behind his back, he asked, “Did you see this similar ‘thing’ that Mr. Chubb is referring to?”

The young boy paused. “Can’t say that I did, sir.”

“There now, Mr. Chubb,” said the Captain, patting the boy fondly on the back, “not a thing to be seen. Still, it’s right to be cautious at sea. You don’t know what might jump out at you.”

Swallowing back his failure, the young midshipman nodded his head. “Y ─ Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Captain Brennan chuckled. “No need to be so meek, boy. You made a mistake! The best of us do in the beginning. Why, I’m sure one day you’ll captain a fine ship much like this one.”

“Do you really think so, sir?” _This all depends on whether or not he grows up to be less finicky_ , thought Brennan, but he decided not to voice that. A boy needed to believe in himself to grow into the man God intended him to be!

“Of course. Why, I remember─!”

Captain Brennan’s fond anecdote of shenanigans from his boyhood was interrupted by the most unsettling sound. In the early morning silence came what appeared to be, at least to his ears, a high-pitched war cry that resounded into the foggy air.

An involuntary chill ran down Brennan’s spine as he looked to the crew standing behind him for some answers. “What in God’s name was that?”

“We better be _prayin_ ’ to God, Cap’n,” came the trembling report of one of his seamen, “That sound only means one fing. Barbary Banshee’s on our tail.”

“Barbary Banshee?” He repeated, eyebrows furrowing. “Nonsense. That’s nothing but a legend passed around by old drunks.”

“Ya better start believin’ in legends quick, Cap’n.” One of the oldest members of the crew, one Jonathan Hollum. “Or we might just end up another tally on the Banshee’s headboard.”

One of the many virtues he prided himself on was realism. The Barbary Banshee was an absurd legend passed around by fishwives and their drunkard husbands,  nothing of substance─

The good captain’s train of thought was cut off when cannon balls went sailing straight into the quarterdeck, debris and chips of wood flying in every which direction. In the distance, he could see it. A fearsome man-of-war creeping out from the fog and a figure perched just at the tip. Its flag was nothing he recognized and belonged to no foreign enemies, a black background with the white silhouette of what appeared to be a Medusa-like character. This was no French privateer.

Pirates. Oh, bloody hell.

“ _BEAT TO QUARTERS_!” he cried. “EVERYONE IN POSITIONS! I WANT THAT DAMNED SHIP SUNK AND ITS CAPTAIN HUNG!”

The men all scrambled into position as more cannonballs flew and the wounded became more noticeable on the deck. Brennan leaped into action and ordered them below deck to see the physician before screaming out other orders to the men. These pirate scum had taken them by surprise but damned if he was going to get caught with his trousers around his ankles.

Grabbing a telescope from one of the men, he held it up to scope out what they were dealing with. In golden letters on the enemy ship the words _Banshee’s Cry_ stood out loud and clear to him. Suddenly all those blasted tales of Barbary Banshees that he had promptly ignored rushed back into his memories and he kicked himself for not being more privy to these stories.

“I need a damage report!” he roared as he turned on his heel, storming down the deck at anyone with their limbs still intact.

“ _Sir_! The taffrail!” Brennan strode down to the railing around the stern of the ship. One of the men was hoisted down to view the damage by a rope and as he leaned over, the expression he was met with did _not_ make him feel good about himself.

The man, Johnson, gave him a grave look. “Rudder’s been shot to hell, Cap’n ─ steering don’t answer!”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Are you telling me we’re sitting ducks, Johnson?”

A frown. A nod. The last thing he needed to hear. “Aye, sir.”

Captain Brennan exhaled through his nose, pressing the bridge through his index and thumb in a feeble attempt to come up with a plan.

“ _She’s coming towards us, sir_!” Despite being a man-of-war that damned ship was fast. Whatever orders he had to dish out, he had to dish them out fast or they were all doomed to sink to the bottom of the ocean. He cursed the captain of that ship and yet had no choice but to admire the precision with which the attack was executed.

It came right out of nowhere and hit them with a full broadside, cutting across the tail to take out the rudder. By all accounts they should be firewood by now.

“We need to be pulled into that fog!” said the captain. “Get the boats and prepare to row us forth!”

“More than half the boats been totaled, sir.” Midshipman Courtenay reported with a pronounced look of fear in his eyes.

“ _What_?”

“A cannonball got ‘em, sir!”

“Blast it all to hell, does this bastard know the geography of my ship?” cried Brennan, wracking his brains for a backup plan. But that came too little, too late and the ship wracked with a warning cannonball to its side by the enemy.

He wasn’t going down without a proper fight. “Seize your weapons! We’ll fight these pirate bastards and show him the true meaning of His Majesty’s Royal Navy!”

The crew roared and the unanimous sling of weapons rung into the air. Mere moments later enemy troops had swung onto the deck of their ship and the battle had begun in earnest. The ringing of steel meeting steel hissed in his ear as he charged at one of the pirates.

Chaos had been unleashed on the deck of the HMS _Chastity_ and his crew had already been decimated because of cannon fire. All he wanted to do was to cross swords with the bloody captain and run his sword through the bastard’s gut for putting such holes in his ship. Pirates were a breed of filth that needed to be washed away; starting with this Barbary Banshee fellow.

The sharp curve of a freshly sharpened scimitar pressed to his throat and he felt his body go rigid. _Be careful what you wish for, Will_ , he thought. A scent of spices came to his nose and he realized he was being forced to lean against something soft. He cringed as the sound of a pistol shot into the air and silenced those battling, stopping in their places. The captain had been stopped right next to the helm.

“Lay down your arms,” came a smooth, accented voice, “and I will spare your captain’s life.”

The voice, the posture, and the physicality told him everything he needed to know, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the Barbary Banshee up close and personal.

Shoved out of this woman’s grip he was immediately restrained by his arms by a tall, dark-skinned Creole, a sharp glare piercing into his skin and unsettling him. His sword was yanked out of his hand and tossed to another of the pirates standing nearby. As was his pistol. For all intents and purposes, he was powerless.

“Command your men to do as the Captain says,” he said, his accent sounding distinctively French.

With a reluctant sigh, he conceded. “Lay down your arms, lads.”

The woman nodded once with a triumphant swing in her step and addressed his crew as if she were the Queen of Sheba. “I shall make this quite simple for all of you. I am Captain Rana Demir of the _Banshee’s Cry_. You know who I am, and you know why I am here. No one need die if they are smart about it, yes?”

Her accent indicated a Middle Eastern background; likely Ottoman. This woman had a head of impossibly thick, black-brown hair that flowed freely down to her mid-back. She was young. _Embarrassingly_ young given the defeat he had suffered at her olive-toned hands.  She seemed in her mid 20s. Her body dipped and curved with the vitality of her youth and when she turned to look at her he was briefly struck by her dark brown eyes and the fire they held.

Hers was not a beauty that would be celebrated back home. It was wild and unsettling. Strong. Intimidating. Like staring into the face of a lion poised to pounce. She carried herself with a man’s swagger, a sway in her hips that expressed confidence, assurance in her position in life. She wore trousers, boots, a finely crafted black velvet hat adorned with a single peacock’s feather. This woman’s existence went against everything he was raised to believe and she knew it.

“I am led to believe this is a cargo ship,” she said, the tip of her scimitar tilting his chin to look at her. “Am I correct?”

“Supplies for the army to suppress the colonial revolt,” he said through his teeth. “Nothing of value for pirates.”

Dark eyebrows shot up. What appeared to be a mocking smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Nonsense! I quite like cargo. Cargo means that my crew does not starve to death in the middle of the ocean. Don’t you prefer that option, Jacques?”

“I prefer it, _capitaine_ ,” said the man restraining him.

“We have two options in this situation,” she said, pacing with pursed lips, the soles of her boots clicking against the wood on the deck, “I could take every last bit of cargo on this ship and leave your survival to the Providence of the Divine that you English cherish so much or I could leave just enough to get you to the nearest port.”

“We serve our country!” Came a young voice in the crowd of his crew, watching the ruckus. “God would protect us!”

The pirate woman quirked a smile with a musical laugh. “Would He? I am not so sure.” Looking out to the men on the ship, she ordered everyone below deck to be brought above immediately. Every man that manned the guns or swabbed the decks or did all the lowly work was brought squinting into the sunlight. The ship’s physician, Doctor Crabbe, alongside them.

Trotting down the steps, she made her way over to one of the servants. A boy of roughly 17 that had been a source of rebellion since he came on board. A tall, lanky boy with broad shoulders and a head of unkempt dark hair that hung in his face. The doctor said it was saving him, but the captain hadn’t been sure.

The boy’s eyes shot to the size of plates as she spoke to him. “What is your name, boy?”

Without hesitation, he said, “Name’s Jack Firebrace, ma’am.”

“Firebrace,” she said. “I prefer the title _Captain_ , if you do not mind. Tell me, how did you come to serve on this ship?”

“Taken off a London harbor, Cap’n,” he replied. “I’m pressed, as it were. I hate workin’ on this bloody ship.”

She nodded, hands on her hips. “You look like you have not eaten anything in days.”

“They give me breadcrumbs, Cap’n Rana,” he snarled, wringing his hands in the tattered cloth of his trousers.

Eyebrows shooting up, she turned to address the crew again. “Is this the glory of His Majesty’s Navy? Forcing boys to serve, and then starving them when they do so? Tsk tsk, God would not approve of such practices, I think.”

Silence. Press ganged? The doctor hadn’t mentioned that. He had specifically spoke against such a practice. It didn’t exactly inspire morale or loyalty in one’s captain. He needed men who were proud to serve in the Navy, and this entire situation was why.

“Tell me, Firebrace, which option would you choose?”

“Aside from the officers, Cap’n, these is good men,” he said with a solemn nod of his head. “I’d choose the second option. Let ‘em make their repairs and get back to port.”

She threw her head back in a laugh. “It appears your lives have been spared by the rare instance of morality!” The pirate looked to her crew. “Leave enough for them to make it to the nearest port half-starved, and the supplies to fix their rudder!”

“Captain Demir!” Firebrace bounded up to her, dropping to one knee. “I’d very much like to join your crew, if you’ll ‘ave me.”

The request amused her and made Captain Brennan’s blood boil beneath his skin. “What makes you think my crew is any different than the one you see before you, Jack Firebrace?”

“I feel it in me bones, Cap’n.”

“You would be an outlaw,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest. “And if you were caught, hung for the crime of existing as a pirate.”

 _I could have told him that_! thought Captain Brennan with a deep-set scowl.

It didn’t shake his resolve, however. “Better ‘anging than staying with this lot.”

“Fair enough. Welcome aboard, Jack Firebrace,” she said with a slap to his shoulder. “ _Jacques_! I shall handle the good captain. Acquaint our new crew member with his responsibilities,  hm?”

“Oui, _capitaine_.”

Brennan gasped for breath as the large man went off to do his duties. This was a humiliating blow to his pride on all accounts and it was made worse when the Ottoman woman sashayed up to him and surveyed him up and done.

“I prefer your hat to mine,” she said as if speaking to a drinking companion, swapping his for her own, adjusting his dark blue tricorne on her head. “It makes me look more official. Adds on to the irony of the situation, yes?”

At that point, he was trembling with anger. “The King will have your head for this.”

“Will he?” She cocked an eyebrow, unfazed by the threat, practically dripping with the arrogance of her victory over him. With one clean yank she ripped the jacket off of his body, a dagger in her left hand to warn him against struggling or fighting back. “Your George has yet to catch me. I invite him to try, however. For now, it appears I have soiled the chastity of your ship. She can never be married now ─ such a pity.”

Plucking the feather from the hat now on his head back onto hers, she whirled on her heel, pausing only to throw him a simpering look. “Give my regards to your King, captain. And tell him no hard feelings, yes? We all must make a living in this cruel world.”


	2. Haul on the Bowline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! So I'll be running around doing college stuff on Saturday, so I thought it better to post this chapter now. I hope you're enjoying it so far, and thank you for the feedback I've gotten so far. It motivates me to keep at it, so please feel free to leave comments as you like. Enjoy!

The _Aquila_ was docked in Martha’s Vineyard. Connor sat atop a box on deck, hands in his lap as he contemplated his next move. Faulkner would be taking up to an hour to resupply the ship, so it gave him some time to consider his next move against the Templars. This attempt brewing on Washington’s life would not only greatly hinder the revolution, but give the Templars an opportunity to place Charles Lee as Commander in Chief. A position he would use to destroy every opposition imaginable.

Failure wasn’t an option. Not that it ever was. But he couldn’t do anything until he had more information. For all intents and purposes, he had no choice but to sit on his hands and it was driving Connor up the wall. He hated feeling useless, feeling like the safety of his people and of this nation was completely out of his hands.

“Blast it all!” Faulkner’s voice called out, alerting Connor to the plank as his first mate strode across the deck in a rushed fit. “I forgot my coin purse in my cabin.”

He cracked a smile. “You can’t pay for cannonballs with your words, Mr. Faulkner.”

“Oh, so the boy’s got a sense of humor now?” he retorted, stopping in his tracks to shoot Connor a poignant look. “Good to know you’ve got your sea legs out of your arse, Cap’n.”

Swinging the doors open to his cabin as he chuckled, Connor watched as Faulkner froze in his tracks and cried, “ _What in God’s name are YOU doing on my ship_?”

Shooting to his feet in alarm, he rushed over to Faulkner’s side. In front of them both stood a woman who had, by the looks of it, single-handedly turned the cabin upside down. There were papers and drawers strewn in a disorganized jumble everywhere. The look on her face seemed as if she was completely in the right for being there, which confused Connor all the more. Neither white, nor one of his people, she was dressed in clothes that Faulkner normally took to. Although he did recall Faulkner going on about the bad luck it brought onto a ship to have a woman on board.

He looked to his first mate for some answers but the old man’s eyes were fixated on this woman as if she had just personally set fire to the _Aquila_ before his eyes.

“Is that all the hello I get, Robbie?” she said with an accented lilt, her mouth turned down into a pout feigning innocence. “After all we have been through together?”

Faulkner unsheathed the sword at his hip and brandished it, his eyes narrowing in anger.  “You get your thieving arse off of my ship, Rana Demir, or so help me God─!”

“ _Your_ ship?” Despite the clear threat in the situation, she was unfazed, crossing her arms across her chest with a raise of an eyebrow. “Word has it that your darling _Aquila_ is being captained by a Native. An _amateur_ Native. Always the first mate, never the captain?”

Connor frowned. “I am no amateur.”

It was if she hadn’t even heard him. “You have something of mine. And I don’t intend to leave without it, Robbie.”

He took a threatening step forward. “Who’s to say I didn’t lob the damn thing into the ocean straightaway?”

Her expression shifted as he said that, darkening while she unsheathed her own sword. Curved and adorned with three small gems that caught the light. The woman met his challenge with a puffed chest and it appeared to Connor that whatever Faulkner had of hers, it was of great importance. “ _That_ would be a grave mistake, Robert Faulkner.”

“Always talkin’ big,” he replied with a sneer. “But what d’ya have to show for it? A little reputation, smuggled coffee and some Spanish gold? You’re in over your head to be talkin’ to me like that, _girl_. I’ve been at sea longer than you’ve been alive!”

If his taunts were affecting her, she made no show of it; only letting out a laugh and a taunting smirk. “Have you forgotten the last time you underestimated me? You played the bitter old sea dog and it almost cost you your arm, if I remember correctly.”

“You’re playin’ in a man’s world, girlie,” Faulkner snarled, his hand flying protectively to his right arm. “There’s already a bounty on your head ─ do you really want me to turn you into the guards? Could buy some upgrades while you’re hung for the high crime of piracy.”

She let out a laugh, throwing her head back. “You could not catch me if you tried for a hundred years,” she replied, already bored. “Give it to me.”

“You think you can just _waltz_ onto my ship like a goddamn queen and make demands outta me?”

In that split second a pistol was pointed to his forehead, the arrogant glint in her eyes growing dark with malicious intent. She was completely convinced this was going to go her own way. “I won’t ask again.”

That was when Connor decided to intervene. He wouldn’t stand by and watch Faulkner get shot, no matter how little he understood the situation between he and this woman. Grabbing the head of the pistol in her hand and attempting to twist it out of her grip, he was taken aback to find she was completely prepared for it. She turned to shoot him an annoyed glance before her foot went flying into his gut, knocking the wind out of him.

In a flurry of movement she shoved Faulkner to the ground and pointed the pistol to his forehead again, the heel of her boot covering his throat.

“ _Where_ is it, Faulkner?” she demanded.

Connor caught his breath and grabbed her by the back of her finely threaded jacket and threw her backwards, losing her balance and slamming onto the floor, the pistol sliding over to him.

“ _Lads_! We’re gonna need some help over here!” Faulkner roared as he regained his footing, brushing himself off. “Got ourselves a she-devil we need to reign into control!”

The one named Rana looked up from her position on the floor with nostrils flared. Jumping to her feet, she said, “So you’re the Native.”

“I am Connor,” he said. “And this is my ship you’re trespassing on.”

“Connor?” she repeated, glancing at the advancing crew men. The strange woman sized him up from head to toe like a piece of meat up for barter. “I shall be sure to forget it.”

The men stopped in their tracks and Connor was amazed to see some of their reactions. There were many who were completely unfazed and following orders but some of them looked as if they were staring at a poltergeist.

“ _Shit_ , is that the Barbary Banshee?”

“It’s bad luck to cross blades with ‘er!”

“I know a guy who got his chap cut off ‘cause of ‘er!”

“ _You’re **all** bloody cowards_!” Faulkner cried out as he jabbed a finger in her direction, his voice growing hoarse in agitation, one of the veins in his forehead becoming visible. “She’s only an upstart woman who fancies herself a pirate, now do your goddamn jobs and _grab her_!”

“Oh dear, Robbie, should a man of your age _really_ be exerting himself like that? You’ll make yourself ill.”

Faulkner’s teeth ground behind his teeth. “I’ll see you hanged yet, you bitch.”

She grinned with impish delight, and Connor realized she greatly enjoyed getting under Faulkner’s skin. “Your good King George cannot hang me, what makes you think you can?”

Twirling on her heel, she made her way into the mass of crew members now charging at her, sheathing the sword at her side. She fought through them with a perpetual look of amusement on her face, mocking them all to the point of rage without a single word passing her lips.

“For the love of _God_ , Connor.” His attention snapped to Faulkner and it dawned on him that he wasn’t just a bystander in this situation.  “Don’t just _gawk_ at her─ _grab_ her, she’s a dangerous pirate and needs to be kept off the seas!”

Faulkner was right! A criminal needed to be apprehended, and Connor rushed down the steps from the helm to aid in the attempt to do so. For all he knew, she could be working with the Templars.

By the time he had joined the fight, at least half of the men were on the ground, knocked unconscious. The others were hesitant in challenging her. He took the initiative, pushing past them, eyes narrowing in scrutiny.

“This is an unwise course of action,” she said, the both of them unsheathing their swords at the same time, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “I will wound your precious manhood.”

“Arrogance is the ruin of even the most seasoned warrior,” Connor replied, her body language practically dripping with it.

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I am in no mood for life lessons.”

Their swords clashed and he began to analyze her expressions to decipher her next move. But the problem with this woman was that it was impossible to do so. There was an air of triumph and smugness about her, as if she had already won this duel and was humoring him for the sake of amusement.

The pirate’s movements were fluid but harsh. She intended to find a weak spot. She knew he could overpower her, so she wouldn’t stand still long enough to give him the opportunity. Steel met steel in rapid succession as Connor turned to match her movements as best he could manage, making sure he never had his back to her. Faulkner and some of the other crew members cheered Connor off from where they stood, circling around  them both.

She was fast, erratic, impossible to predict. Just when he believed he could land a hit she was on the opposite end of where his blade landed. Connor closed his arms around her in the middle of one of her spins and for that split second he believed he had her, the muscles in his arms locking in an attempt to restrain her.

The hilt of her blade went flying into his gut and he stumbled backward to catch his breath. The heels of her palms flew into either of his ears and he lost his sense of balance, ears ringing painfully. A foot went flying into his stomach and he felt himself collapse to the hard wood of the deck.

She bent down and removed her pistol from one of his holsters, waiting for him to look up into that pair of large brown eyes as she pointed it between his eyes. The smirk had left her face and she seemed to examine him for half a second, her finger tensing on the trigger. Connor felt himself go rigid in an instance of fear.

A shot fired off. His body locked into a defensive cringe, the sound irritating his ears. Was he dead? At that range, he should have been. After a few moments, his eyes dragged open to see the head of her pistol wafting with smoke ─ she’d shot into the space just next to him. The sound had doubled the pain and ringing in his ears.

A predatory smile on her face, she said, “That will teach you not to play with fire.”

With a mocking wink, she whirled and leaped onto the edge of the deck before dashing onto the port, her speed picking up as she disappeared into the mid-afternoon bustle of Martha’s Vineyard, her mass of hair bobbing up and down as her figure became smaller and smaller. Connor groaned, swearing in his native tongue as he was helped to his feet by members of the crew.

“Make no mistake, she’ll be back,” said Faulkner, swearing under his breath as he surveyed the damage to his men. As for Connor, there was a maddening ring in his ears that he couldn’t shake.  “She’s as stubborn as a mule, that damned woman.”

“What did she want?” Connor asked.

He grunted, plopping down beside him as he recounted the story. “Two years ago I was off the coast of Istanbul, aboard a merchant’s ship ─ I’d secured passage on my way to Italy. She tried to rob it blind. There’s tell she’s merciful when ships aren’t near a port to resupply, but we weren’t that far from the capital city so as far as she was concerned, we could swim our sorry arses back to shore. Her crew storms the deck and the bastards nearly totaled our rudder. We could move, but not fast enough to evade her.”

“What stopped her?”

Faulkner fished in his pocket and produced a large metal key on a silver chain, placing it in Connor’s hands. His eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. It looked worthless, rusted on some corners. It must have meant something to have stormed onto an enemy ship alone to retrieve.

“She had this around her neck. I yanked it off by accident and ─ did ya see how smug she was back there? How nothin’ seemed to bother her? Soon as she lost this filthy key, I tell ya, it was like I found an Achilles heel. I made ‘er swear that she’d let us go free without taking a damn thing or else I’d throw it in the ocean. I never thought she’d track me down this far for a piece of metal!”

He blinked, turning it in his fingers. Absently, he wondered what Achilles had to do with this situation but he left that question for another time. “It must mean something of great worth to her.”

“Aye,” he agreed, taking the key from Connor’s hand. “It saved my life.”

“Then why did you not return it to her?” It didn’t make any sense by Connor’s reckoning. “If she came all this way for it─!”

“I don’t make concessions for pirates.”

Connor’s eyebrows shot up. Faulkner failed to sound like anything but a spiteful old man. “Would it not discourage her from coming back to the ship if you gave her what she wanted?”

“She’s a _pirate_ , boy,” he deadpanned, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I’m not goin’ out of my way to do what _she_ wants. She swans her way onto this ship and thinks she can demand it out of me, like some common servant? I won’t have it. She nearly took my arm off, y’know!”

Faulkner pulled up the right sleeve of his jacket, presenting a scarring, wide gash that stretched all the way up to his shoulder. The puckered skin looked as if it had been a nasty wound at the time.

So he _was_ bitter and this key was his way of getting back at her.

There was still no logic in keeping it and he didn’t hesitate in informing Faulkner as much. In Connor’s mind it would be as if someone had stolen his mother’s necklace. He would have turned the world upside down to get it back, so in a way he could sympathize with her, pirate or not. “You are keeping something precious to this woman out of spite?”

“ _Bah_!” he exclaimed, arms flying into the air in exasperation, jabbing his finger in the direction she’d run off to. “ _That_  is no woman ─ no decent woman in her _right mind_ would think it right to live like Rana Demir. You don’t understand, boy, you know so little of the sea. She goes against everything a decent sailor _stands_ for!”

“What does that have to do with returning a key?” he demanded. This entire situation could have been avoided, Connor realized. His ears could have been safe and not ringing, had Faulkner only done the decent thing.

Faulkner pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers.  “For Christ’s sake. Do you know what pirates do? They kill, they steal property, they destroy and they drink and they whore until someone grabs ‘em by the hangman’s noose. You don’t need to whip out your moral compass for the likes of them.”

“But I still think─!”

“ _Bloody hell_ , Connor! She just handed your arse to you and you want to do the woman a favor? Have you lost your senses?”

“The fight does not matter!” he insisted. “She would leave you alone if you gave her what she wanted, would she not?”

He scoffed. “’Course not. The bitch would try and sink the _Aquila_ straightaway.”

Connor decided not to push the topic further, his ringing ears having  morphed into a fierce headache that left him in no mood for a debate. Evidently, that woman was not the only one who was as stubborn as a mule. His first mate stood to his feet and ordered the men to scrape their useless behinds off the ground and into positions; they were shoving off back to the cove as soon as he was done resupplying the ship.

 

 


	3. Rocky Road

 

          One thing that was easy to appreciate about the colonies, the war raging on left room for less than legal practices that were good for business. Business that didn’t benefit the Crown. Not that she gave even the slightest damn about privileged English people six months away. Although Rana preferred the atmosphere in the West Indies to Boston.

          If only for the fact that it was never this cold down south. Boston’s was the type of cold that made its way into one’s bones and stayed there until it either brought about death or seasonal depression.

          That evening Rana leaned against the wall of her venue of choice in this frigid town, the _Sleeping Badger_ , a pint of ale in her hand. The barkeep Finnegan never asked questions and quite enjoyed the company of an odd pirate or two or ten. According to him, it brought much needed variety into his pub. And if that earned her cheap ale, she’d take it.

Her mind was on Faulkner and his stubborn vendetta. It was only business that day they crossed swords, the day he yanked the key from her throat. He only kept her necklace to spite her; that much was evident. For God’s sake the man was, what, 500 years old by now? Did he need to act like an overgrown baby?

          “You have never let a man trouble you so deeply, _capitaine_.” She looked over to the table to see Jacque regarding her with concern and no small amount of amusement in his mismatched eyes.

          She scoffed, grabbing hold of a seat across from him and propping her feet on the table. “Who says I’m troubled?”

          “Your face tells me you are.”

          “This ale tastes like piss,” she replied with a shrug, despite taking a hearty gulp of the stuff. Rana had an intense craving for the Jamaican rum below deck of her ship, but that was on the other side of the state, being repaired and outfitted under trusted hands.

That last fight had left nasty holes in her darling Banshee, holes she wasn’t going to take risks with. Plus, it needed to be upgraded with the latest weapons and technology. O’Keefe, the man who was overseeing her beloved ship, estimated that this would take six months to do it properly, this included getting the proper lumber and evading the authorities. They weren’t so nice about pirate ships, after all.

So she was stuck in the colonies for at least half a year, her crew scattered over hundreds of miles; sworn to reassemble in six month’s time. Rana’s instructions had been clear ─ don’t get arrested, don’t get hanged, and show up in Boston in time; because you _will_ be replaced otherwise. There are more than enough press ganged men in the seven seas, she had said to them.

A prospect that was less than appealing to her. Why couldn’t she be stuck on the outskirts of Martinique? _That_ was where the best of her kind roamed. Many called it the new Port Royal. One that God himself couldn’t strike down, such was the sheer extent of the licentiousness and debauchery exacted there. Although in many ways she wished she lived during the time when Port Royal was the base of the world’s piracy.

“All this trouble over a rusted key,” said Jacques, snapping her back to reality. He’d been sitting across from her, having noted the noticeable knit in his captain’s brow. “A worthless scrap of metal that only _reminds_ you of a past that you wish to forget, Rana.”

“It’s not about the necklace,” she replied, taking another swig of her pint of ale. “I should have run the bastard through when I had the chance.”

“Your pride will be the death of you.” He leaned back in his seat, regarding her with a raised eyebrow. “And your recklessness.”

Rana grimaced. There was a tiny handful of men who would speak to her so frankly on her ship. In normal situations, she would take Jacques’ advice on these things. But not for that necklace. She was going to get it back, with or without his help. “Did I give you permission to be my voice of reason on this matter, _Monsieur_ Durant?”

He held his hands up in a sign of surrender, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “ _Mes excuses_ , _capitaine_. But I am not your first mate for nothing, eh? It is my job to make sure do not get yourself killed.”

“Indeed? It seems to be the other way around on most days,” she quipped with another gulp of her ale.

Jacques rolled his eyes and stood to his feet, off to refill his pint. Before doing so, he bent down to place a teasing peck on her temple. “Say what you like, but you need me more than you will ever admit.”

Cursing him in Arabic she attempted to shove him away, but he managed to leap out of her reach just in time, throwing his head back in a musical laugh as he made his way over to the counter.

“Arrogant bastard!” she cried, snickering despite herself.

Jacque Durant of the French colony of Haiti. The oldest friend she had ─ they had been looking out for each other since the day she joined the _Banshee’s Cry_ under its original captain, Godric the Grey. He’d aided her in mutiny and with every battle since as the best damned first mate a captain could ask for. And the worst damned pain in the ass she never asked for, but unfortunately, it came with his territory.

He was the illegitimate son of a French colonist and a Haitian slave woman, who apparently still lived back in Port-au-Prince. What little he spoke of his life before he set sail for England told her that it was far from a tale to share around the pub on drunken evenings. They had that trait in common: unsavory childhoods that were better left forgotten. Drowning any kind of emotional trauma in excessive amounts of drink was a far more favorable option, after all.

          Rana always assumed that Jacques took after his father. A strong jaw, a straight, distinctively French nose. Only his hair seemed to come from his mother, a dark shade of brown that fell in coils around his shoulders. Even his skin looked as if one decided to mix the black and white into a slightly lighter shade of mahogany. But the strangest feature about him was the mismatched pair of eyes. One a dark brown, the other a shade of hazel.

          Glancing to the opposite side of the pub, she noticed the large, hulking Swede up against the wall, a pint in his hand and a blank expression painted across his strong features. Deep in thought, apathetic to all else around him. Not surprising, considering who  he was.

          “Are you hoping to attract women by seeming dark and mysterious?” Rana called out. The ghost of a smile appeared to tug on the corner of his lips before he crossed over to her, pulling up a chair.

          “Captain,” he said with a respectful nod of his head.

          “Alf,” she returned. “I’m surprised you stayed in Boston.”

          “I do not wish to be devoured by bears,” he replied in his accent with a swig of his ale, subsequently ending his take on the conversation. Which was fine with Rana; Alf was the least talkative person she had ever come across. She preferred to stare at him and, as it were, the sharp contours of his body in all the right places.

          If she didn’t have a rule against having a bit of fun with her crew mates, she would have had her way with him months ago. The sad thing was nothing could be done about it. As soon as men see you with your ass in the air, they seem to forget the concept of captaincy. An unfortunate side-effect of being a man.

          His existence had always been baffling to her. One would think that a man she found surrounded by ─ and drenched in the blood of ─ the bodies of colonial Spanish officials just outside of Kingston would have quite a lot to say. But such was not the case with Alf. If he’d grown out a beard he would resemble the stories of the Vikings of the past.

          The doors to the pub opened and in meandered that Jack Firebrace boy she’d scraped from the _HMS Chastity_. Hands shoved in his trouser pockets, he surveyed the area with narrowed eyes in search of someone. However, one of the unfortunate things about pubs that welcomed all walks of life was that they could smell an amateur from two miles away.

          And where there was an amateur, there was coin to lift from his pockets.

          Two slimey-looking men got up out of their seats and blocked his path. They sounded like they were from the same neck of England that Firebrace himself hailed from. “You lost, boy?”

          “What’s it to ya?” said Firebrace as he tried to push past them. They didn’t like that, shoving him two steps backward. Rana watched for his reaction with interest, her eyes on the inevitable scuffle boiling under the surface.

          “You sound fresh off the boat,” one of them remarked. “Seems you haven’t been told about the pub toll.”

          Her eyebrows shot up at the sheer stupidity of that statement. And then she waited for the boy to respond, to see if he was clever enough to get himself out of it. Rana assumed that he would get puffed up and try to fight back with fists raised and a story ready to go about how he was the boxing champion of the English hovel he inevitably grew up in.

          “Look, mate, I’m not lookin’ for trouble,” he said, holding his palms up. “I’m just tryin’ to find my captain.”

          “Your captain? You a sailor?”

          The look on his face told her that he still wasn’t used to the idea of being a pirate. “You could say that.”

          The man landed a hit to his jaw and Firebrace went flying backward, sliding against the wooden floor. Some laughed, others simply stared. Standing over him, the man said, “Well you either are or you’re not, skipper.”

          “The boy needs to take out his dagger and fight,” said Alf.

          Jacques slid back into his seat with a newly filled pint, glancing at the scuffle before turning his attention back to Rana. “No daring rescue for our unfortunate new crew mate?”

          She snorted before taking a gulp of her ale. “I’m not his mother. He can scrape himself off the floor and learn from this experience.”

          An eyebrow popped up, an amused smile stretching across his lips. “And what life lesson is he going to learn from this?”

          “ _C’est la vie_ ,” said Rana, removing her hat to run her fingers through her hair. They observed as one of the men bent down to try and snatch Firebrace’s coin purse, but the bugger had some fight in him after all. He took a slug at one of their noses and seemed to force some blood to come out. The poor form he’d used had bruised the bones in his hand all the wrong way, on top of it, and she watched as he cradled his right hand to his chest.

          A clenched fist went flying into the boy’s gut. He let out a sputter, the breath knocked out of him.

          “It’s like watching a puppy try to pretend to be a wolf,” she said, framing her hand against her face. The fight wasn’t going well for him. That hand he had just ruined was the only weapon he seemed to be able to use.

          As if commenting on the weather, Jacques added, “Is that not the coin purse _you_ loaned him a week ago?”

          “Goddammit, it is,” is all she said before standing to her feet, grabbing the stool she’d been sitting on. Exhaling sharply, she marched over to the two men and in one swing, smashed the stool on one of their heads and watched, a look of boredom on her face, as he collapsed onto the ground in a heap of poorly washed musk. The men in the pub reacted accordingly. A drunken mixture of _oh ho hos_! and _bloody ‘ells_!

          “Ben!” cried his companion.

          Rana’s hands fell on her hips. “Would you like to join your charming friend on the floor or have we reached an understanding?”

          “Jumped up _bitch_ ,” he said, voice shaking like a little boy. A threatening smile crept across her lips and, taking the warning that she was more than willing to create a pile of louts if need be, skulked away.

          “Cap’n …” Firebrace’s pale cheeks blushed in humiliation, wiping the blood dribbling down his chin with his sleeve. In a pathetic mumble he said, “I … had it handled, I did.”

          Rana turned to the rest of the pub, gesturing to Firebrace. “ _This_ useless pup is under my protection, and subsequently, under my pay roll. If any of you bastards attempt to rob him or otherwise, I shall personally cut your cocks off one by one and feed them to sharks.”

          “Who the hell are _you_ to tell us─?”

          As he spoke she fiddled in her jacket for one of the throwing knives in her inner pocket and flung it in the direction of the voice without a second thought. It landed just short of the speaker’s ear, burying into the wall. It was one of the highlights of her evening to watch his eyes double to the size of plates.

          “Any more questions?”

          A low murmur rumbled through the pub and Rana noticed her handiwork still lying on the ground. With the tip of her boot, she nudged him. No response. “Oh, yes, and I have either killed him or rendered him unconscious for an extended amount of time. Either way, a great service to the city, hm?”

          The pirate captain surveyed the pub for further comments, her eyes stopping at the tall, dark figure looming in the doorway. Hidden in the shadow, she couldn’t quite make him out. She shrugged it off quickly and with that, grabbed Firebrace by the cloth of his shoulder and dragged him over to her table, tossing him down onto a chair Jacques had already pulled out.

          “ _That_ is the last time I pull your ass out of the fire,” she said, plopping down on the chair across from him. Grabbing her first mate’s pint, she downed a nice gulp before slamming it back down onto the table, sliding it over to the boy nursing both a bad hand and a bruised jaw.

          “I owe you one, Cap’n,” said Firebrace as he took tentative sips of the beer.

          “More than one,” Rana replied.

          “You must learn to fight, boy,” Alf piped in. “That was a pathetic display.”

          Firebrace scowled. “I s’pose _you_ could have done better, eh?”

          “I would have crushed their skulls into powder within seconds,” he deadpanned in a voice so matter-of-fact that it was as if he was pointing out the mild weather they were having that evening.

          There was an unsettling pause, all of them eying Alf with eyebrows raised, Firebrace not-so-subtly scooting his chair a few inches away from the resident giant on the _Banshee’s Cry_. The boy had done nothing but eye Alf with suppressed fear from the moment he stepped on her ship. It was a constant source of entertainment.

          “You are quite literally the most terrifying man I have ever encountered in all my life. You know this, yes?” said Jacques, a teasing smirk on his face. Rana snorted with laughter.

          Alf shrugged. “It is not my intention to frighten others.”

          “You’re doing a shit job of it,” Firebrace muttered, taking a large bite out of the bread sitting in the middle of the table. Both first mate and captain laughed at that, and a sense of ease came around the table for a few pleasant moments. Even Alf cracked a tiny smile, which was an accomplishment within itself.

          The moment was interrupted when a tall figure came striding up to their table.

          “I am looking for Captain Rana Demir,” came the voice. Immediately, Alf shot to his feet and loomed over the speaker. Rana poked her head from behind his broad back and remembered it was that Native boy from yesterday afternoon. The one she’d bested so easily in battle. They were almost the same height, though Alf had at least a few inches on him.

          “State your business,” he deadpanned, crossing his arms across his broad chest.

          “My business is no concern of yours,” the Native returned.

          “Your business will be the least of your concerns if you do not say why you wish to speak with the captain.” He met Alf’s challenge with a deepened scowl and a slight puff of his chest.

          Rana popped to her feet, in no mood to watch Alf beat the pulp out of this would-be captain. She needed to be much more drunk to enjoy it properly. “Let him pass, Alf. There’s very little harm this one can do to me.”

          He did as he was told with a reluctant grunt, sitting back down and taking a swig of his pint.

          “I have already forgotten your name,” said Rana. “Tell me what it is, so I may remember it for the next three hours.”

          The muscles in his jaw tightened. “Connor.”

          “Connor,” she repeated, hands falling to her waist. “Have you come here to challenge me to a rematch? Demand that I never step foot on your precious ship again?”

          There was a long pause before he fished in his pocket and dangled her necklace right before her eyes, which widened. “No. I have come to return your key.”

          Rana felt her heart skip at the sight of it.    

         

         

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Stay linked for next Saturday's installation. Please feel free to leave any feedback.


	4. Faith

          “What are you playing at?” she asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion as her hand flew to the hilt of the sword at her hip.

          “It belongs to you,” he replied as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “I am returning it.”

          Rana snorted with a brief instance of laughter, her focus now much more intent on this most curious of happenstances.  “So you are being the good Samaritan and giving it back out of the … kindness of your heart?”

          Connor nodded. “I did not agree with the way Faulkner kept it from you.”

          She quirked an eyebrow. “Is this before or after I bested you?”

          “That means nothing to me,” said Connor. “It is yours. I am giving it back because I believe it to be right.”

          “So you would give it back to a complete stranger with no regard for a reward?” she demanded,  looking him up and down, analyzing him with a marked scrutiny. “You want something.”

          He frowned, grabbed her wrist and put the necklace in the palm of her hands. The cold metal against her skin lifted a weight from her shoulders. “All I ask is that you leave Robert Faulkner alone.”

          Rana’s fingers closed around it “Why do you care about such things?”

          “I care enough to have given you what you wanted,” he replied. “That is all.”

          “You would get involved in a two year grudge for that old dog?” She threw her head back in a laugh. “Now that _is_ loyalty. How refreshing.”

          His expression remained frozen in stoicism. “I would have your word.”

          “A pirate’s word is not reliable,” Jacques piped in, watching how this large man stood unmoving in his task. “You realize this, yes?”

          “All the same, I would have your word,” said Connor. “In return for the necklace, you will leave Robert Faulkner be and go about your business.”

          There was a long, pregnant pause. In that time she attempted to find an answer to her questions.  She found him strange, unlike any man she has come across, and she had come across many.

          Rana raised her glass to him. “You have my word. I will leave the old bastard be.”

          Connor nodded his head once. “I thank you.” He turned on his heel to leave and began to stride to the door. She watched him go for a few moments.

          “Connor!” she called, and he stopped to look at her over his shoulder. The ghost of an amused little smirk began to tug on the corner of her lips, an eyebrow raised in fascination before she said, “You have my gratitude for returning my property.”

* * *

          The next day on the _Aquila_ was not a pleasant one.  Connor did not ask permission but simply took the necklace from Faulkner’s desk to see it returned to its owner. As he crossed the plank onto the deck, all he could think about was the way that woman carried herself. The arrogance, the fluidity of her movements, the glint in her eyes as she watched him. Like a wolf staring at an injured doe. As if she believed herself to be the most dangerous being in all of Boston. He could see that she thought that she believed as much by the perpetual flame burning in her eyes.

          Faulkner stormed up to him. “Don’t tell me you did what I think you did.”

          “It had to be done.”

          “ _Had to be done_?” he repeated, teeth grinding behind his lips. “You made concessions with _the enemy_!”

          “Your enemy perhaps,” Connor replied. “But she is not my enemy ─ she is no threat to this land or its people.”

          His first mate snorted aloud. “How wrong ya are, boy. That bloody necklace was the only leverage I had over her ‘ead. What’s stoppin’ her from blasting the _Aquila_ to timber, eh?”

          Connor pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “She gave me her word.”

          “Oh, aye, _her word_!” he cried, throwing his arms in the air in exasperation with a mouth now properly deepened into a scowl. “That’ll do you some good, ya secured a _pirate’s_ word.”

          “She told me that she would leave you be!” said Connor.

          “If she hangs me up by my toes from the crow’s nest, it’ll be your fault, ya hear me?” Faulkner spun on his heel and went about his business aboard the ship, and despite the man’s irritation, Connor could not help but find his little spectacle a bit amusing.

          All this fuss over one criminal and her band of misfits? She was hardly a Templar.

* * *

          Long fingers brushed across the rusted metal key. The material against the palm of her hand after so long allowed relief, at last, to wash over her. Rana sat in her room in the inn at the edge of the bed, unmoving for over an hour, wrapped up in her own memories and doubts.  Rana fastened it around her neck, resolving to keep a much better eye on it.

          The key brought back images of a bygone age. Ones she, in an ideal world, would lose herself in. Childish as it was, Rana was bad at putting aspects of that particular past behind her. Much of her childhood was better left forgotten, but she almost wanted to _thank_ her father for shipping her off to England.

          It had been six years. Six years since she stepped foot in that blasted garden, strewn with discarded drawings and sketches and paintings. Six years since she held a pair of clammy, pale hands between her own and prayed to a God that she had lost faith in. _Just give me this_ , she had begged Him, _Just grant me this one request and I’ll turn my life around_.

          God saw fit to ignore her pleadings that day, and took from this earth one completely undeserving of death. And it was on that day that she severed any connection she might have thought to rekindle with the almighty being in the sky.

          Good riddance, she thought. She didn’t need permission from some man in the sky to go about her business as she saw appropriate.

          Rana stood to her feet and nudged the curtain open to see the sun setting in the distance. And where there was a sunset, there were people beginning to drink profusely. Turning on her heel, she left her room and went down to the pub counter, where Finnegan was cleaning off his counter before his regular customers would appear.

          She slid onto a stool. “Give me a pint, Finnegan.”

          “I don’t know where ya put it all, Cap,” said the innkeeper with a chuckle, walking over to the barrel of ale. “Ya drink more than most Irishmen, I think.”

          She chuckled. “You have never seen how much an Ottoman can drink?”

          Finnegan shrugged.  “Can’t say I have. Don’t get much of them around these parts.”

          He slid the cold ale over to her and she took a hearty swig, wiping her mouth off with the sleeve of her jacket.

“Finnegan,” she said. “Did you not mention that smuggling tea, stamps and drink into the colonies is quite a way to earn coin?”

“Oh, yeah,” he replied. “Didn’t think ya were interested in that ─ but business is boomin’ for that market.”

She needed to bide her time until her crew arrived for the evening. There was a plan they needed to discuss. Smuggling was a lucrative business in Boston and she intended to get them in on it. She also took a bit of enjoyment out of pestering the British government.

Rana cocked an eyebrow. “Who is the big dog in this town?”

“Thomas Hickey’s who you’re lookin’ for,” said Finnegan. “That one’s got his finger in every pie.”

          “Well now.” Rana glanced to her side to see a man grab the stool right next to her. He looked young, cocksure and otherwise uninteresting. “It’s not every day ya see a woman in a pub.”

          “It appears you have learned something new this evening,” she deadpanned with a roll of her eyes, turning her attention back to try and discuss the matter with Finnegan.

          “You’ll forgive my ignorance,” said the man. “I’m new around here, y’see.”

          Rana scoffed. “That is obvious.” An Irishman. Fresh off the boat and hungry for a poke by the next pair of breasts he saw. She felt so fortunate that she got to  be his lucky attempt for the night.

          Despite her clear sarcasm, he remained unfazed. “Quite an accent ya have. Whereabouts are ya from, love?”

          “Haven’t heard of the Barbary Banshee, Owen?” Finnegan interjected, an amused smile on his bearded face.

          “Aye,”  he said, confused, “I’d hear tales here and there from some of the sailors at the port in Dublin, but that has nothin’ to do with the colonies, surely? I thought the wanted posters were a bit of a joke to scare the colonists.”

          A smirk split across her lips. “It appears you speak with an apparition, then.”

          That was when she got a good look at him. A pair of dark green eyes peered back at her, framed by a head of thick, short black hair that curled at the tips. The one called Owen’s face was oblong, accentuated with a long,  straight nose. Stubble clung to the outline of his jaw. And just by looking at him she could tell that he prided himself on being acquainted with the ups and downs of women’s skirts.

          “Am I?” he said, removing his hat in mock awe and adjusting the collar of his shirt. “Then you’re as beautiful as the stories say.”

          “Ah, so you did not hear the stories that describe me as an old hag?” she asked, smiling to herself at the memory of that. Her enemies were petty at the strangest moments. As if anyone in their right mind would believe her to be old and ugly.

          “Heard ‘em,” he replied, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I liked to believe otherwise. And I was right.”

          Rana exhaled through her nose and made a point of allowing her next sentence to drip with sarcasm. “How very happy for you.”

          “Oh, I’ve heard all sorts of stories about you,” he quipped, not taking any sort of hint. “Every step you take in these colonies seems to piss either the Yanks or the Brits off. I’ve heard from those whose toes you’ve stepped on that you’re a wanton, Godless mistress of the Devil. Those wanted posters don’t do you justice, either. But I suppose it is less embarrassing to be bested by a homely woman … than one as beautiful as yourself.”

          “Is that what you’ve heard of me?” she asked.

          “From the sailors, I’ve heard that you’re a fair captain and treat your men with respect,” Owen said. “I have also heard from every man who knows of you that yours is a beauty that would bring any good Christian man to his knees in worship.”

          Rana scrutinized him. This one was laying it on quite thick. “Is that not blasphemy where you come from, Irishman?”

          He shrugged with a wry grin. “Perhaps, but I’ve never presumed to call meself a good Christian. And if ya please, I’d prefer if you called me Owen.”

          “Alright, Owen,” she said, leaning in closer to him. He mimicked the action, unable to hide the cocky smirk that flashed across his face. “I do not believe you _have_ heard of me.”

          “Why not?”

          “Because if you had,” Rana continued, “Then you would realize that baseless flattery is not going to get your hairy Irish cock into my trousers.”

          The pub erupted with laughter at her comment, and she leaned back in her stool with a contented smirk of her own, yanking his pint of beer and downing a considerable amount. To her surprise, Owen didn’t storm off in a humiliated huff like all the others. He took it all in stride. He was laughing _with_ them, in fact.

          When the laughter died down his smile at her grew broad and arrogant before he said, “It isn’t all that hairy, actually. And I can always prove it to ya,” he paused to wink at her, “if ya don’t believe me.”

          “Jesus, Mary ‘n Joseph, Owen,” Finnegan commented, “the hole you’re diggin’ yourself in is gonna get you killed, y’know.”

          “I don’t think so,” he said, his eyes never leaving her face, “I’ve amused the good Cap’n Demir.”

          Rana’s eyebrows rose. “What makes you so sure of this?”

          “Judgin’ by the way that tree of a man’s been starin’ at us since I started talkin’ to ya,” said Owen, gesturing a casual finger to Alf in the far back of the pub, leaned against the wall, “he’s one of your crew members, and if I irritated ya that much you would have had him haul my arse out the door faster than I could rub two shillings together.”

          Glancing behind her, she noted that she hadn’t even realized Alf was standing back there. For such a large man he was startlingly quiet on his feet. “Are you saying that I cannot fight my own battles?”

          “’Course not, but why would an infamous pirate waste ‘er energy on the likes of me?”

          He had a point. Either way, she had matters to attend, even if this man was interesting in his own right. “Finnegan, where would I find Thomas Hickey?”

          “I coulda told ya that,” Owen piped in.

          Rana ran a hand a through her hair. “I am less than willing to ask for directions from strangers.”

          “Stranger?” he said in a tone of feigned hurt. “I tried to get into your knickers and everything; does that not at least make us acquaintances?”

          She shrugged. “If you continue to amuse me, it would be possible.”

          “I could show ya where Hickey normally is,” said Owen.

          Her eyebrow rose in coy flirtation. “Interested in piracy are you, Mr. Awley?”

          “Teach me how to sail and I’ll consider it,” he quipped, never breaking eye contact, leaning in closer. “It might serve as another form of entertainment for you ─ watching a drunken fool steer a ship to impress the vivacious pirate queen.”

          “Pirate queen?” She tasted the title on her lips. “Hm, I like the sound of that.”

          The smirk widened into an impish grin. “I could call you pirate empress, if you like.”

          “It might get you a bit closer to my knickers,” she countered. He inched closer at _that_.

          “Pirate goddess, then.”

 

         

 

 

 

         

         

 

         

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit more low-key for now, but the action's going to pick up. Thank you for reading and stay linked for next Saturday! Feedback would be much appreciated!


	5. Savior Complex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback thus far! I'm really excited to see the response this story has gotten and I'm really glad you guys have bared with me for the past five weeks, heheh. I appreciate it!

_V: Savior Complex_

          Rana woke up that morning to the sound of the city. She was still unaccustomed to waking up on stable land, her body longing for the sway of the ocean’s surface. A soft groan next to her reminded her that she’d been busy the previous night. Rana glanced to the naked man tangled in the sheets beside her and tried to recall the full extent of last night.

          It had been over a month since she had a good rutting, she almost felt herself going mad at the lack of it. He did the job well enough, but for the life of her she could not remember his name.

          She sat up, running fingers through her hair. Today was the day she would seek Thomas Hickey out and figure out a way to get her foot in the smuggling door. On her feet, she swiped her clothes off the floor and began to dress, lacing up her breeches, adjusting her shirt and tying her corset from the back.

          What’s-his-name seemed to drag himself awake. “Oh, ah, you leaving?”

          “Evidently,” she replied. “Make sure to pick up your belongings before you leave, yes? And be gone before I leave, or I will not be a happy person.”

          “Don’t wanna have another go?” _Oh dear_ , she thought. He was one of _those_ types. Rana wished the alcohol had not so definitively nullified her judgment. The man in question was handsome enough. Young, working class English and clearly new to the city. He had a head of shaggy, unkempt brown hair and seemed to have the look of a puppy that’s fallen into a mud puddle.

          She regarded his request with an amused raise of an eyebrow. “I have business I must attend to.”

          He swallowed the lump in his throat. “That was the best night of my life, y’know.”

          “Oh, I know,” she said as she tugged on her leather boots and adjusted the tricorne she had swiped from that pompous English captain. Fastening her sword and pistol in their respective positions, she added, “I daresay it is the best night you will ever have.”

          Rana left the room with the typical swagger in her step. She made her way down the corridor and found Alf standing at the foot of the stairs, his eyes fixated on her, arms at his sides.

          “Good morning, Alf,” she said, stopping in her tracks.

          “It is past noon, captain,” he replied. Sometimes she could swear he was mocking her under that perfect mask of stoicism.

          She stretched her arms into the air, letting out a mighty yawn. “Is it? Then I must be getting to the business of the day. Do you know where Jacques is?”

          “With the woman he courted the previous night,” said Alf. “If you wish, I will dispose of the man in your room.”

          “I will not need you to do that unless he decides to linger there,” Rana replied with an absent wave of her hand. “Alf, how drunk was I last night?”

          “Enough to allow a pup into your bed.”

          Rana grimaced. She could always count on his honesty, even if it did leave a bad taste in her mouth. “I suppose the ale made him more appealing.”

          Alf shrugged. “Such is drink.”

          “What was his name?” She assumed that if anyone knew, it would be Alf.

          She assumed correctly. “Lane.”

          She felt her nose scrunch up. “An unfortunate name for an unfortunate man.”

“Anyway, I am going to seek out Thomas Hickey and see to it that I am no longer bored and contact-less in this land.”  She began to walk in the direction of the door and saw that he was unmoving. “Are you coming or are you staying, Alf?”

          There was always the possibility of a fight, and there was no one she preferred to have at her side in case of that possibility more than Alf. All six-foot-five of him was a ruthless warrior that did not believe in mercy. Nor did he believe in questions. Rana gave Alf an order and he would follow through every single time with full accuracy and skill.

          His mind appeared to be elsewhere, her voice snapping him back to attention.

          “Do you wish me to accompany you?” he asked.

          “I am not asking you to listen to your accent,” she replied, and he nodded and followed her without another word.

* * *

          Connor was preparing to make his way into the city. He was building a new Assassin base city by city, and he was beginning with Boston. Reconstruction of the order was essential, and it was a task that kept him occupied when his search to find more details about the attempt brewing on Washington’s life came out to nothing. Stephane was keeping him informed on goings-on in his section of the city, but he wanted eyes and ears in every corner. He wanted just as much intelligence as the Templars had, and more.

          “Connor!” came Achilles’ voice from his room and subsequent base of operations on the ground floor.

          “What do you need, old man?” he asked, opting to use the endearment, as he was in a decent enough mood that particular day.

          “What progress have you made with the attempt on Washington’s life?” said Achilles, reclining in his seat with a poignant look on his wrinkled face. There was always something about the way that old man looked at Connor that made him feel he was not doing his duty adequately; that he was an amateur, a child in a man’s world.

          But then, the news he had did not disprove that point. “I … the search has come up with nothing.”

          There was a long pause. Achilles did not seem angry, but tired. “Well, you can never say that the Templars aren’t a prudent bunch.”  Another pause. “You should make a point of going after their sources of income, loosen their hold on Boston.”

          “And how would you have me do that?”

          “Go after their sources of smuggling,” he replied. “Find out who’s who and what’s coming in through Boston’s black market and how to stop it. And keep building our contacts there ─ a disgruntled, drunken Frenchman with a cleaver will only get the Assassins so far.”

          Connor paused, considering that new focus. “This search could also bring me closer to finding who intends to take General Washington’s life.”

          Achilles nodded. “It would serve your time better than angering Faulkner.”

          He exhaled sharply. No doubt he drank too much and came barging into the house to inform Achilles of the incident. “It is done. Whether he wishes to stay angry or not is his decision.”

          “He holds grudges, Connor,” he said. “You can’t expect an old sea dog to learn new tricks.”

          “It was childish,” Connor replied. “I saw no reason to put the ship in jeopardy because of a piece of metal on a silver chain.”

          The old man folded his hands in his lap. “As you get older, you’ll get more stubborn. Now, Faulkner told me the story but I want you to know that I think you did the right thing. You’ve got better things to worry about than pirates.”

          Achilles’ approval always gave Connor a slight tingling feeling in the pit of his stomach; as it happened so few times that it should be marked on a calendar. He let the skeleton of a smile ghost across his lips.

          “They are not a problem for this land?” he asked. Connor never considered himself knowledge about the sea and what it took to be a sailor. He left those lessons up to Faulkner.

          Achilles shrugged. “No, pirates are a dying breed around these parts. They used to be everywhere in the West Indies, but they’re a type for another era now.”

          That woman did not seem like the member of a dying breed. “The woman I dealt with was … very sure of herself.”

          “A woman in a man’s world has to be as cocksure as she can, Connor,” the old man replied. “Otherwise she wouldn’t survive.”

          It was one of the aspects of this society that he would never agree with. In the _Kanien'kehá:ka_ women were revered and respected for the role they played in everyday life. The village would collapse without his grandmother’s guidance.  “If she is just as capable as other men─?”

          He snorted. “I’m sure she’s _more_ than capable. But that’s the way of this world, boy.”

* * *

          A month and a half in the city and she still had, at best, a vague idea of where she was going. Rana strode through the city as if she had been born in it because that was how she believed she needed to present herself to Boston’s inhabitants, but hell if she had the slightest inkling as to where one might find the _Green Dragon_.

          Alf was walking behind her in silence, waiting patiently for his captain to swallow her elephant-sized pride and ask him if he knew where to find this pub.

          She stopped in her tracks, a hopeful expression beginning to flash across her face. Turned halfway. He was a step ahead of her, holding a hand up, palm forward.

          “I know little of this city, Captain,” he said. “I cannot guide you.”

          And it was in that moment that Rana recalled that a sense of direction was not on Alf’s immeasurable list of skills. She remembered one day when she put him in charge of navigation and he’d led them off the coast of Brazil when she intended to be in Martinique.

          The man could gut a fish in half a second but give him a map, and suddenly he’s as squeamish as a maiden on her first tryst. Or, as squeamish as Alf could ever appear to be.

          “So you do not have a Viking’s sense of direction, then?” she had said, teasing the gargantuan Swedish man.

          Alf had not replied. It was before she realized he was able to speak.

          “Oi! Cap’n!” Rana glanced behind her to see an eager, charming Irishman bounding up to her. The black tendrils atop his head bounced as he ran toward them both.

          She knew him immediately. The not-so-hairy-cock one. Owen Awley.

          “Ah … your name is Oscar, yes?” No need to inform him that he had made an impression, Rana decided. Owen Awley had a big enough ego as it stood.

          He chuckled,  shook his head. “Close enough. Owen.”

Rana pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers, but humored him nonetheless. “What do you want? I am quite busy, you know.”

          “You’re off to see Hickey, are ya not?”

          “I believe that would be my business, Owen,” she informed him, and out of the corner of her eye she could see Alf’s hand floating to the hilt of the sword at his belt, fingering it as he eyed the situation.

          Owen shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “I just wanted to tell ya you’re goin’ the wrong way, Cap’n.”

          She swore under her breath in Arabic. No use pretending she knew exactly what she was doing. “Well then. Show me where it is, then, Owen Awley.”

          “Ah, so ya _do_ remember my name,” said Owen, grinning a charming smile as he gestured in the opposite direction. “Shall we?”

          And so the two of them began to walk together, Owen’s eyes fixated on her face as he ran a hand through his dark, coiled tresses, returning them back to his trouser pocket. Alf trailed after them a few steps back, watching the visitor for any sudden movements.

          “Are you a sailor of some sort?” she asked.

          He scoffed at the notion. “Christ Almighty, no. I was hurling up half me guts on those months across the pond. I was a Jack of many trades in Ireland. Did whatever paid better.”

          “And now?”

          “A trade I partook in backfired,” he replied with a shrug. “Had to buy passage on the first ship out ─ wasn’t about to face the hangman’s noose for the little they paid me to do it. Now I’m wondering if these blasted colonies are much different from the noose.”

          Rana’s fascination with Owen the Jack of all trades strengthened. He didn’t seem to be just another drunkard looking to win the temporary favor of an infamous she-pirate. Or if he was, he was doing a decent job of hiding it. “The colonies are interesting enough.”

“Point me in the direction you’re off to and I’ll tag along for the ride.” There was no shortage of confidence exuding from the way Owen carried himself. It was nothing new to the men she spent her time with, but it was somehow more entertaining.

          “Tagging along with me often gets most men beaten … maimed … drowned … killed,” she quipped.

          “It’s a damn good thing that I’m not most men, then,” he returned, his stare growing intent.

          Soon enough, they happened upon a sign that read the _Green Dragon_. She motioned to walk in when he grabbed her by the forearm and asked her to wait for half a moment. Rana looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

          “What?”

          “Just wanted to warn ya,” he said, “Thomas Hickey … well, he’s not the most charming bastard in the world.”

          Rana’s eyebrows furrowed together for a moment before snorting with laughter. Did he assume he was going to win her favor by pretending to be a savior of some sort? “I suppose I am to appreciate your concern, but I am a pirate. I deal with cutthroats and murderers every day. If you are looking for a woman to make you feel like a hero, I am sure you can pay a prostitute to do it.”

          With that, she opened the door to the pub and strode out of sight. Owen was left behind, blinking.

          “Jesus, Mary ‘n Joseph,” he said, mostly to himself, “she’s not like most women, is she?”

          “Your first mistake was assuming she was.” Alf walked past him, barely even throwing a glance in his direction before he followed after his captain.


	6. Just Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd really love to know what you guys are thinking thus far. Still, the fact that a lot of you are reading this on a weekly basis is that something that really humbles me. I thank you, and enjoy the chapter!

The _Green Dragon_ smelled like a combination of pipe smoke, man sweat and piss. So, nothing out of the ordinary for such an establishment. One of the owners came up to the unusual pair. The sun was setting, so people were beginning to file in to begin their nightly ritual of drinking themselves under the table after a hard day of hardly any work.

          “What can I do ya for, ah,” the patron paused in the middle of his sentence, taken aback by her clothing for a few moments before rightfully deciding it was none of his business, “miss?”

          “I wish to speak with Thomas Hickey,” said Rana. The man pointed her to a corner of the pub where sat three different men of varied sizes and ages playing draughts. A violent rendition of it. From where she stood she saw one of them make a smart move, and his opponent responded by slapping him in the back of the head. Her eyes narrowed as she mentally drew out a plan of attack. It was a bit of a futile routine, because she knew exactly how the conversation was going to go with men like them. With the right persuasion any of these men could be swayed.

          “Can I get ya a drink?” asked the patron.

          “Alf will see to drinks,” she replied and Alf nodded his head in silence, making his way to the bar counter. Rana cracked a muscle in her neck and got down to business.

          Adding a bit of a sway to her step, she walked over to his table. All three pairs of eyes shifted in her direction. “Which one of you is Thomas Hickey?”

          A man looking to be in his late 30s stood to his feet, a broad smirk crawling across his mouth. Thick, meaty fingers drummed on the table as he surveyed this visitor. His face was round, stubble clinging to his chin that stretched into a point. All in all, he wasn’t terrible to look at. But he wasn’t all that pleasant to look at either. And he smelled of cheap ale.

          “I’ll be whoever ya need me to be, darlin’,” said Hickey, eyes raking over her body and paying special attention to her breasts. “But for the moment, yeah, Thomas Hickey’d be me.”

          Rana’s jaw shifted ever so slightly, but she remained unfazed. This was not the first, nor would it be the last, time a conversation would begin in such a way, after all.  “I have a business proposition for you.”

          “What kinda business we talkin’?” A lecherous grin spread across his face, a glint in his eyes. Rana could already see the fantasies playing out behind that damned glint. A low chuckle rumbled amongst his colleagues.

          Without missing a step, she said, “Word has it that you have quite a stake in the smuggling game.”

          Now she was interesting him. A foreign woman dressed in men’s clothing asking him about smuggling. “What of it?”

          “I want in.” The men at his table all laughed, exchanging remarks about how ridiculous the request sounded, how this woman had to be kidding. The two other men continued to  laugh, except Hickey.

          Hickey’s eyebrows raised in surprise. He crossed over to her and there was an uncomfortably little amount of distance between them. “That’s a loaded fing to ask a complete stranger. What makes you fink I’d agree to it?”

          “Because you are not a fool,” said Rana. She made a point of looking him up and down, tilting her head. “At least, you appear not to be.”

          The grin widened, morbid amusement appearing on his face from the sheer audacity. A hand reached up to grasp her chin between two calloused fingers, forcing her to look into the hazel of his eyes. “Who the hell do you fink you are, luv?” His eyes flitted down to the now noticeable swell of her breasts. “Other than the owner of a pair of a lovely setta tits.”

          His other hand reached up in an attempt to grab one of her breasts. She tightened her hand, painfully, around his wrist and in a voice calm as the moment she stepped into the pub she told him, “Tell me, Hickey, have you ever heard of the Sack of Santo Domingo?”

          Rana shoved his hand out of her grip and grabbed a chair, propping her leather boots. She fished in her jacket for her pipe, tinderbox and small tin of tobacco.

          “Maybe,” he said.

          “Then I suggest you never touch me like that again before I do to you what I did to the Spanish,” Rana replied. His associates stood to their feet to answer the threat she had just made before a throwing knife grazed past one of their noses and slammed into the wall.

          Alf made his presence known. His large boots knocked against the wood of the pub until  he was at his captain’s side, shifting a glare between the small group of men as he placed an ale in front of her. She started smoking with a wolfish grin on her face, not even bothering to note the way he shifted, pushing back his shoulders as he stood behind where she sat.

          It was one of her crowning achievements. Jacques insists it was by pure luck that she was in the right place at the right time, but it was one of the greatest naval feats she had ever hoped to accomplish thus far. Not only did she manage to sink at least two Spanish man-of-wars, but she had secured herself a cargo ship filled with finely ground, fresh coffee and a handsome amount of gold.

          Rana had dreamt of days like the day she raided those ships, her crew behind her. It was an interesting series of events, as she had found Alf less than two weeks beforehand. All he had at his disposal was a long dagger. And that was when she first saw him fight. The ferocity burning in his eyes was from a bygone age, she felt like. She had made the mistake of making eye contact with him in the middle of battle and found nothing staring back at her but an empty, merciless carnage. He then proceeded to slit a man’s throat.

          Never had she realized just _how much_ blood was in a person than when Alf was done with the Spanish soldiers unlucky enough to cross his path. And as those two man-of-wars sunk to the bottom of the ocean she saw the crimson of Spanish blood painted on the cloud-white sails and asked herself what she had brought onto her ship.

          That day, she had earned the hatred of the Spanish fleet and a reputation that trickled through the West Indies and up into the English colonies, her name traded amongst wary sea dogs. It was not enough by Rana’s reckoning, but it was a start.

A start that would earn her a place where she felt she belonged: history.

          She sunk her earnings into a bit of debauchery and added wages for her crew, but mostly for outfitting her ship with the latest and greatest technology could give her. In no less than half a year, her _Banshee_ would be a menace of the known oceans. Rana’s name would be burned into the archives of history. Stories of her adventures would be told for centuries to come, songs would be sung about her, and she would be just as notable as Blackbeard, Francois l’Olonnais or Edward Kenway could ever dream of being.

          “Well I’ll be fucked.” Hickey did as he was told, took a few steps back and appeared to analyze her in a whole new light. “You’re the Barbary Banshee, aren’t ya?”

          “What was your first clue?” she asked, a considerable amount of sarcasm laced into her tone, puffing on her pipe. “My accent or my clothes?”

          “I ‘eard you cut men’s cocks off,” he said, and she noticed him take a slight, subtle step backward again. The two behind him exchanged worried glances. “That true?”

          _God help me_ , she thought. “It has been known to happen.”

          “So you want in on my smugglin’ venture, do ya?” Hickey grew intent, pursing his lips in consideration. “What makes you fink I’d want your services?”

          “Something tells me my services are not something you would forgo,” she said.

That lecherous grin crept out again. “In normal circumstances, I’d have told ya to fuck off.”

A languid eyebrow rose. “It is a very good thing this is not a normal circumstance, then, yes?”

“You’re in luck.”

          “Am I? Oh, how joyous for me.” He plopped back down to the sit facing her opposite. Unfortunately for her, he had a generous view of her breasts no matter which position she decided to sit, so she simply ignored it and hoped it would factor into his decision making.

          “I got business up in New York I gotta leave for soon enough,” said Hickey, sizing her up again. “If you’re as skilled as you fink you are, you could be of use t’me.”

          Rana leaned back in her chair. “I do not want to ‘of use’ to you. You will treat me as your equal, Thomas Hickey, because I will be able to bring in more business and money with your involvement than your unkempt subordinates could ever dream.” That was what men like him wanted to hear. That she would make his pockets and coin purse fat.

          She expected Hickey to laugh in her face, but a flash of greed appeared in his eyes as he leaned in, apparently taken in by her approach to the situation. “Ya talk big.” He paused. “I like it.”

          “Are ya actually _listening_ to this whore, Tom?”

          Alf’s hand fell to the back of the speaker’s head and slammed his forehead into the table with a deafening _slam_. He cried out in agony, clutching his now bleeding nose and curling into himself. The other stood to his feet in a feeble attempt to challenge him, but Alf stared him down with a flare in his nostrils and a knit in his blond brow and the man sunk back into his seat like a kicked dog.

          Hickey gestured to Alf, caring little for the other man’s injury. He regarded him with an increased sense of fascination. “Where’d ya find ‘im?”

          “I did not find him, so much as he found me.” Rana made a mental note of rewarding him for being so diligent. There had to be decent tea somewhere in Boston.

          “Tea’s a big business in ol’ Boston,” said Hickey. “I’ll put ya in touch with the right people, yeah? Long as you give me a proper cut we’re right as a trivet.”

          Rana was impressed. Normally it took men like him at least a day to truly make up their minds. “You made up your mind quickly.”

          He chuckled. “You swanned in ‘ere like you was the queen o’Sheba, told me what ya wanted and that you were gonna make me richer. I reckon your cock’s bigger than most of my men put together ─ I figure that’s a good person to work with, ey? Don’t hurt that your titties are nice to look at, neither.”

          “We are agreed, then?”

          Hickey spit on his hand and offered it to her. _Ah, so they have yet to eradicate that bizarre practice in the west_ , she thought. There was no use putting on airs in the business she was in, she decided as she mimicked his action and shook the outstretched hand and a nod.

***

          “Captain.”

          “Mm?” Rana and Alf were making their way back to theBadger to await word from Hickey with a list of contacts to get in touch with. A feeling of satisfaction coursed through her veins at the success of that business deal.

          “The way those men speak to you,” he said, “it never angers you. Why is this?”

          A wry smile tugged on her lips and she gestured him to a bench in a nearby plot of grass. They sat together. The wind brushed against her cheeks. “I do not always have the option to lob a knife between their eyes. Some sort of diplomacy needs to be exacted to get what I want, hm?”

          The  man almost seemed _troubled_ by this, eyes as bright and blue as a Jamaican sea fixated on the ground, a frown on his face. As if it had been troubling him for quite some time, in fact. “They know of your skill, they hear of your reputation and yet they still speak to you as if you are nothing to them.”

          She blinked, taken aback by that response. “The world must be a different place in Sweden.”

          “I am not from Sweden, Captain.”

          That changed things. “Then where the hell are you from?”

          There was a long pause before he said, “I am from the north.”

          Rana assumed as much. “ _How_ north?”

          “Very north.”

          Knowing that this was the most information she would ever get out of him about his past, she returned to the original subject. “Being a woman in my line of work is a complicated business, Alf. They either want to fuck me, kill me, or fuck me and then kill me. I must prove to every man I see  that I am not just an upstart woman. That I am a force to be reckoned with, that I _demand_ to be heard.”

          “You did not have to prove this to me,” Alf said, never breaking eye contact with her. “Seeing you in battle was enough. Seeing your treatment of the men on the ship was enough. Whether you are destined for greatness or not, I will follow you to the ends of the earth, Captain. This, I swear in this life and the next.”

          Rana swallowed the lump forming in her throat. For the first time in what felt like her entire life, she was at a loss for words. There was no witty retort, no snarky quip to mask how unnerved she felt. It takes a bizarre sort of man to render her speechless, and she had found him. No one had ever spoken these kind of words to her, pledged this sort of loyalty with … _sincerity_. That word was alien to someone like her. And she stared at him with such an expression it was as if he had begun speaking in his native tongue to her. Her hands clenched into fists in her lap as she tried to muster a suitable reply.

          Alf stared at her in silence for a few agonizingly awkward moments before he unsheathed a knife at his belt and held it to his palm.

          Rana’s eyebrows shot up. “Alf, what in all hell are you doing?”

          “You do not believe me,” he said. “I will make you believe me.”

          Rana grabbed the wrist that held the dagger to the palm of his large, coarse hand and forced it down. “I am not a god that demands blood ritual! If you were any other man I would have pegged you a liar but you’re _you_ , Alf, so I believe you, yes? You have shed more than enough blood fighting for me.”

          “And I will shed more blood for you in the future.” He sheathed the small blade back at the belt around his hips, never breaking eye contact. As serious as the plague, as serious as the day she met him.

          What else could she possibly say? “Whatever keeps the wind in your sails, my strange friend.”

          And he looked at her with the inkling of a smile and said, “Tell me something, Captain.”

          “Yes?”

          “I have never seen you cut a man’s manhood off,” he said. “And yet men say that you do, and often. Is this true?”

          Rana pursed her lips together, shaking her head. It happened _once_ and that was to teach a lesson to an infuriating Turk with a pert behind. Ahmet. It was through her experience with Ahmet that Rana learned that bedding crewmembers was the last thing she should be doing. He had the impression that since he had seen her naked, it was his place to give her orders, question her judgments and glorify the tale of his conquest.

 The option to simply throw him off the ship was suggested. Rana decided otherwise. She found his attitude improved when the offending member was lobbed into the ocean, but that did not stop her from ordering him off when they reached Martinique. That day she had called it ‘dealing with the problem at the source’ and the story spread like wildfire. Scared man clutching at their family jewels gossiped in a manner befitting old fish wives.

“You cut _one man’s_ cock off and you are _labeled_ for life─!” She stopped toward the end of her sentence when he let out a raspy guffaw-like noise, and she realized with shock that he was _laughing_.

          And it was not even a small chuckle, either. He threw his head back in such a jovial laugh that it stunned her into silence for a few moments before she joined him, such rare fits of joy contagious. How could you not laugh with a man like him?

          Alf probably laughed only once every ten years, after all.

* * *

          “Connor, _mon ami_!” Stephane cried earlier that day as he entered the man’s tavern. The Frenchman grinned, extending his hand for a firm handshake. He gestured for Connor to have a seat at a nearby table, the two men plopping into the wooden chairs.  “Have you come for a purpose, or do you simply wish for the joy of my conversation?”

          “How well acquainted are you with the smuggling business in this city, Stephane?”

          Stephane considered that question for a moment before replying, “I do not partake, but it is one of the reasons those English dogs are mad at us, _non_?”

          Connor nodded. “I want to know how much funding the Templars derive from smuggling and, in the process, maybe put a hole in their funds.”

          He grinned and expressed his approval of the plan, despite its lack of complication or finesse. “My father used to always say the best way to strike at a man is not through his family, but through his pocket.” He paused a moment and wracked his brains before adding, “I believe I know where you can begin. I hear many whispers of smuggling in the _Green Dragon_ tavern, not too far from here. It is not much of a lead, I know, but it is a start.”

          He stood to his feet. “Then that is where I must go. I thank you, Stephane.”

          The man gave him a kindhearted smile as he bid him farewell, Connor turning on his heel to leave the tavern. Just as he closed the door behind him, a familiar figure walked past and his attention was seized.

          The large, pale man made his way beside her, but she was unmistakable.

Not only by the way she carried herself, walking with such a maddening sway to her hips that he found himself distracted for a few scattered and confusing moments, but by the look of her. Rana Demir turned her head and locked eyes with him, unflinching. And he could see by the spark in her bright brown eyes that she recognized him.

          And even as she moved away from him, he saw her eyes rove from the top of his head to his toes and an unnerved feeling washed through him. Connor felt exposed, subject to her analysis as if he was laid out for her to examine and dissect to her heart’s content.

          Her lips parted before stretching into a smirk, their eyes stuck in an unnerving deadlock. The stare down continued for at least five seconds before she  returned her attention to what was right in front of her, and he could _swear_ she added more emphasis to the way that she walked before disappearing behind a corner.

It was only when she was gone that he realized he had been holding his breath.


	7. Perspective

          Never before had Rana realized just _how much_ the people of Boston adored their tea than when she began smuggling on land. Even more so when it was untaxed. It not only fascinated her, but filled her pockets with the lovely weight of a fat coin purse. A decent enough distraction to keep her satisfied until her darling _Banshee_ was at her prime. She also always made a point of bringing Alf along with her during negotiations. There was something about a man that stood the size of an average tree, that looked like he could kill you in twenty different ways with his bare hands, that was useful in discussion.

          Hickey had run off to New York and, she assumed, would not be returning anytime soon. Not before negotiating the terms in which she would be smuggling, and the cut she would have to pay back to his subordinates, of course. This was fine with her. His contacts eventually warmed to the thought of doing business with her. Granted, this was accomplished through a combination of coercion, bribery and a bit of skin, but the world was an imperfect place, was it not?

          She had sent out letters to friends and fellow cutthroats in the West Indies who had connections to sugar and coffee plantations. Within weeks she had received word of possible business that would benefit all involved. Rana had informed Hickey of as much before he left, and the greedy grin that flashed across her face told her that he approved.

          A considerable amount of coin was flooding into her hands. It certainly brightened her spirits. It had spiraled to a point that Rana was considering smuggling weapons, as well as coffee and tea, because _that_ was where the real profit could be found. A war was on after all. How could puffed up Europeans fight their wars without cannon and muskets? But she decided not to get ahead of herself, to strength her alliances in Boston before divulging into weaponry. Such a tricky line of work, that.

          _One step at a time,_ she told herself.

          It was on a clear afternoon that Rana had decided to survey her stock in the large building she had commandeered for her efforts. Her perfectionism had compelled her to be meticulous, devoting her energy to sorting out the coffee from the tea, and to who would be purchasing what. Politicians were surprisingly receptive about the entire enterprise.     

          “Captain.” Alf interrupted her train of thought, appearing at her side and startling her. “We might have an intruder.”

          “Might? We either do or we do not,” she replied, although she found the prospect morbidly amusing. Who would dare try and slink their way past? Rana made her way over to the wall on the opposite end of the building and fell to one knee, eye-level with one of the holes in the wood as she inspected nearby surroundings.

          Rana stifled a snort at the sight of the towering man in the telltale white hood. Connor. The name had managed to stick in her head then. He was failing to be subtle less than ten feet away from her base of operations, surveying the area with narrow eyes. He looked like a man on a mission, and she was thoroughly annoyed to find that mission involved her in any way, shape or form.

          “Shall I kill him?” asked Alf from behind her as if he was commenting on the weather.

          Standing to her feet, she shook her head. “No, no need to spill this one’s blood. A good scare ought to teach him a proper lesson, yes?”

          “He does not seem like the type to scare easily,” he replied.

          She shrugged. “Perhaps. Either way, I have an idea, so listen closely, hm? It is quite simple.”

* * *

          Connor had been in this area once before, just before he had become involved in what the colonists had dubbed, the “Boston Tea Party”. Stephane and his informants had told him that the Templars received a surge in income as of late, and this was mostly due to their smuggling efforts. His French friend had commented that they must have employed more men, as they seemed to be more heavily involved in the smuggling game than they had ever been before.

          The sound of doors being kicked open forced his muscles to lock down in alarm, his head sharply turning to see a figure in the doorway of the warehouse, staring him down. Connor’s eyes widened as he took in just who it was challenging him.

          “Did Robbie steal something else of mine you wish to gallantly return?” asked Rana Demir.

          Swallowing the lump forming in his throat, he said, “No.”

          “Then why,” as she spoke, she sauntered her way over to him, “are you so suspiciously lurking around my property?”

          “My business is my own,” he retorted.

          “Not when your business takes you so close to _my_ things,” she returned with a simpering smile. Rana closed a considerable amount of distance between them before she added, “I find it very odd that our paths continue to cross in such ways. If you wish to fuck me, why not simply _ask_ me?”

          Connor did a double-take and felt himself sputter, completely taken aback by such a response. He felt warmth rush to his cheeks as he hastily attempted to defend himself. “What!? _No_ , of course not! That was not my intention─!”

          She snorted in a poorly tried attempt to stifle her laughter, looking him up and down with eyebrows raised. “God above, I don’t believe I ever met such a _glaring_ example of a virgin in all my life.”

          “ _What_?” He had no idea what this had to do with anything and he felt increasingly uncomfortable.  What made it worse was the look on her face, entertained at his expense, mocking him every second that this horrible conversation continued.

          Rana smirked. “I do not even think you have ever _touched_ a woman.”

          “How is this relevant to _anything_?” he demanded. The only thing he wanted to do was exit this situation, but something told him that was not so easily done with someone like Rana Demir.

          Before his question could be answered, he felt a blunt force on the back of his head, the world around him darkened and the distinct sound of a laugh resounded in the mid-afternoon air, vaguely reminding him of bells before everything blackened into nothingness.

* * *

          “Is he heavy?” she asked as an afterthought as Alf carried Connor’s unconscious body into the building. Rana had fetched a chair and some rope; two essential tools for a successful questioning session. “He looks heavy.”

          Incidentally, he was also the first person she found to be nearly as tall as Alf: a feat within itself.

          “He is large,” Alf conceded. ‘Large’ by Alf’s standards meant that he was gargantuan. “But not enough to deter me.”

          “Of course not,” she snorted. “An elephant could not deter you, my friend.”

Once  he was steady  against the chair, she began tying knots  around his unconscious body. Such things were second nature to her, as deft fingers were a necessity on a ship in the middle of a storm. One had to be able to tie and retie knots to stabilize the sails against currents and torrential winds. As she began to remove the knives  from his belt, her fingers smoothed over the daggers on his wrist.

“Curious,” she murmured to herself, yanking them off of him one by one for a better inspection. Rana instructed Alf to make sure his weapons were removed from his body before he woke up as she plopped to the floor, holding the weapons to the sunlight poking through the walls.

An insignia was carved into the weapon. Triangular and regal-looking. It was vaguely familiar to her for a few moments before she realized where she had seen it before. Every now and then she would cross the path of those that adhered to the order; she had the unfortunate honor of being subjected to a history lesson about it by an old Italian man three years prior.

“Well I’ll be damned,” muttered Rana. “Alf! It appears we have an Assassin on our hands. Be _very_ careful to make sure all of his weapons are gone.”

Eyebrows furrowed together and Alf appeared to reexamine him. “How are you so sure?”

          She slipped on one of his hidden blades  and applied the pressure to her wrists. The dagger hissed out of its hiding place and she presented it to Alf with a knowing smile. “I have seen this symbol once or twice in my travels. Edward Kenway was an Assassin, in fact! Quite a talented one if the stories ring true.”

          “I know little of Assassins,” said Alf.

          Rana made a face. “Just another group of bastards with sticks jammed up their asses, pledging to rid the world of tyranny or some such nonsense. Idealistic fools that get themselves killed, if you ask me. The world is a horrible place and the weak are going to suffer and die. That is the way it is. One cannot change it by jamming daggers into men’s throats.”

Her captive groaned, finally beginning to stir and Rana resolved to continue her explanation later. She pulled the hidden blade off of her wrist and directed Alf to place all of the weapons out of sight and out of mind. Connor swore under his breath in some bizarre tongue before looking up at her, bleary-eyed and disorientated.

“Where …?”

“Oh, we did not go far,” she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I simply felt you would be more honest with me in this manner.”

“I meant … you no harm,” he said through his teeth, struggling against his bonds.

A skeptic eyebrow raised as she tugged down his hood. “You will forgive me if I do not believe you, yes?” She found it all quite amusing. “An Assassin armed to the teeth, sneaking around my property. Or were you simply wondering if I wished to have a nice cup of tea?”

His eyes widened in alarm before narrowing. “What would be the point of that? It would inevitably be the tea _you_ are smuggling.”

A triumphant smirk made itself known on her face. It always felt nice to hear  about her current success from others. “Quite right.”

“What do you intend to do with all the money?” he demanded then. “Are you trying to purchase my people’s land again? Did William Johnson’s death teach you people _nothing_?”

Rana blinked. He had lost her. “I … _what_? What in God’s name are you babbling about?”

“I was foolish enough not to believe you the type to be a Templar,” he said, a prominent scowl on his face. “Now I must pay the price.”

“ _Templar_?” Ah, yes. Where there were Assassins, inevitably, Templars would follow. Rana folded her arms across her chest. She remembered when her fool of a father tried to win their favor, hopeful of the coin such friendships might bring. That man sought coin like a beggar would bread. “You appear to have your facts wrong, Connor.”

Now he was as confused as she was. “Then, you’re not─?”

“Of course not,” she scoffed. “Do you think I care a fig for the fools who dedicate their lives to changing an unchangeable world?”

“Wh … Then why do you work for them?” he asked, in a tone that made it feel like he was asking her why she set fire to orphanages in her spare time. “Why do you give them money, when you do not agree with what they intend to do with it?”

When did this interrogation turn on its backside? Still, there was no use informing him that up until that point, she was not aware that _anyone_ was a Templar. “Let’s make something clear. I do not work _for_ anyone. I work _with_ people. Many people. And what they do with their share of the coin I earn is no concern of mine.”

“So you would idly stand by and let them subject this land and its people to tyranny?”

Rana chuckled simply in reaction to how ridiculous he sounded. He was preachy and so self-righteous. “Whatever they do with the coin they earn is no affair of mine, you understand. As long as I earn what I am owed, what cause have I to question the morality of it all?”

“That is a selfish, lazy position to take,” he said, the scowl on his face growing. He continued to struggle in vain against his bonds.

She paused, scrutinizing him. Rana wondered if he was reckless or simply downright idiotic to insult the one who could stab him between the eyes if she so pleased. “Tell me, how far is that stick shoved up your ass?”

“ _What_?”

“You trespass on my property and dare to try and _lecture_ me?” she demanded with an incredulous laugh. “You have gall, I will give you that.” Rana made her way over to him and grabbed him by the scruff of his collar, pulling him closer so that their faces had little distance between them. She unsheathed a knife at her belt and pushed the blunt edge into the skin of his cheek.

In a voice she hoped conveyed the severity of his situation she said, “You did me a service. I do not forget such things. But if I _ever_ see you snooping around here again or, God help you, _tampering_ with my things to satisfy your self-righteous horseshit? I will cut your pretty face.”

There was an unspoken tension between them, their eyes in a glare for a few silent moments, neither willing to back down. Nostrils flared, he refused to give her the satisfaction of watching him sink backward. Despite his lack of reply, she knew all too well that this was not the last time they would clash. No doubt he would find another way to interfere with her business, and she would have to find some sort of creative punishment in retaliation.

“Alf,” she said, shoving his chair back upright and turning on her heel, “I’m going. Untie him and let him go. I am sure he has some damsel to rescue from a burning building or has to turn water into wine or something.”

* * *

          “That Turkish _puta_ stole more gold than you would make in ten years.”

          It had been a year and a half since the Sack of Santo Domingo. A year and a half since he had to endure looking into that wretched bitch’s eyes, as smug as a lion with prey between its jaws, as she burned down his warships and slaughtered his men like dogs. As she set her pale giant upon his sailors and colored the sea crimson with their blood.

          The moment when she had cornered him was burned into his memory. She could have ran him through right then and there, gave him an honorable death defending  but instead she had grinned at him and said in accented Spanish,

          “Tell _Su Majestad_ that his generosity towards our cause is much appreciated.”

However, _Almirante_ Adolfo Segovia was a man notorious for the grudges he held, for the way they festered and mutated in the pit of his shriveled heart. And the need for vengeance against this woman, this Barbary Banshee as she was so arrogantly named, who had grievously wronged both himself and his country was mighty indeed.

“So what do you wish of me, _Almirante_?”

 The man sitting in the chair on the opposite end of the room was young, hired by Segovia to deal with the problem. He was a known privateer, talented, shrewd, discreet. Everything a privateer ought to be.

Segovia reclined in his seat, folding his hands in his lap. He looked around his office in Madrid, feeling the anger brew in his stomach. “The law-abiding Spaniard in me demands she be brought to justice in irons. But … I would not object if extreme circumstances compelled you to run her through.”

Héctor Amancio Araya Sanz’s eyebrows rose, taken aback by this desire for retribution coming from the Admiral. In normal circumstances, he was a civil, flexible man.

“You will go to Boston in the British colonies,” continued the Admiral. “Our spies have tracked her there. Find her and see to it that she is dealt with. I reserve the judgment of apprehending her or killing her to you, _Señor_ Araya.”

He nodded. “ _Por supuesto_ , _Almirante_.” Of course. The coin he was being paid alone was enough motivation for any man in his right mind to leave at once and take the woman by storm. However, Héctor did not delude himself into believing that the coin was the only reason he took the job.

It was of a more personal nature at its heart.

 

 


	8. Rusted Metal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the mini-hiatus, guys. Shit got hectic; I graduated from high school and had a lot of things going on that kept me from keeping to the story like before. Hopefully it's calmed down, and thank you for your patience.

Siren’s Call

_VIII: Rusted Metal_

          Rana has based the last six years of her life around ignoring the past.

          If it does not bring you gold or giggles, she would ask, what was the point of dwelling on it? What was the point of wasting time thinking about it, when you could be downing a pint of ale or having yourself a glorious rut with some dashing Italian sailor? And yet as much as she tried to live by such a mantra, there were moments where her mind would slip. Often when she had been drinking too much.

          Images would flash into her mind of her earliest memories. Of a bygone time when she had no control over her surroundings. The lavish adornments of a Turkish brothel on the outskirts of Istanbul. Red velvets and silks of all colors adorning the walls, spices and incense accentuating the air. Madam Fatima didn’t have as much coin as she would have liked, but spent all her time into making her house as beautiful as it could be and filled it with beautiful women. Sometimes even sacrificing bread in the evening for a cushion made out of Moroccan leather.

          Sundown was her bedtime in that place, implemented as soon as she was old enough to be able to register the sound of a man’s climax. Enforced by Ekaterina. A Russian powerhouse who was simultaneously the scariest and most beautiful woman Rana had ever known. Her memories of those days were foggy at best, but she remembered Ekaterina as if she had last seen her the day before yesterday, rather than eleven years ago.

          Ekaterina had a pair of stormy gray eyes that pierced Rana through and forced forward an infuriating inclination to be honest in all things. She could sniff out lies like a bloodhound during the hunt. Her hair cascaded in thin, dark brown waves down her back. For the longest time Rana assumed she was some sort of fallen royalty, carrying herself with the elegance and strength of a queen. As a child, she attempted to emulate her whenever she could. With varying degrees of success; often ending with the sound of the woman’s boisterous laugh and a fond mussing of her hair. Ekaterina would call her Ranushka on any given day; she was only Rana when she misbehaved.

Rana was a little girl with an apparent scoundrel for a father, living in the shadow of a dead, beautiful mother that could do no wrong. At least by Fatima’s reckoning. She had been informed from an early age that she was not, and would never be, her mother’s daughter. Rana was not the soft, gentle grace of a woman with eyes the color of jade and light brown hair. This was not “mama”, the vague image of a beautiful, graceful ghost of a woman.

The closest thing Rana ever had to a mother was that hurricane of a woman.

Physically, Rana was her Barbary corsair of a father down to her very marrow. A father she didn’t even know existed until Fatima began cursing the ground he walked on one day and never stopped every moment their eyes locked, until the day he showed up like a puff of smoke. From her thick, near unmanageable hair to her dark olive skin, she was noth─

“You’ve been starin’ at the wall for the past ten minutes.” Owen’s voice snapped her out of her alcohol-induced trip to the past. “Ya alright there, Cap’n?”

She was grateful for the respite from such unpleasantness, and resolved to at least be civil about his advances that evening. “I’ve had too much to drink.”

“You’ve had, what, seven pints?” he said with a chuckle. “I figure you can hold your ale better than most sailors could ever dream.”

An impish smile flashed across her face and she raised her glass to both him and herself. “If drinking was a sport, I would excel.”

He knocked his own pint with hers. “Agreed. You put me to shame.”

She shrugged. “I often do that, yes.”

Rana’s eyes drifted to the wall at the back of the pub, her mind wandering elsewhere. This was a day that her mind had decided, without her consent, would be a day of contemplation. She never liked to dwell for too long, as her memories would venture into dangerous parts of her past that she otherwise burned out of her conscious thought.

“What are you thinkin’ about right now?” asked Owen.

“I miss my ship,” Rana said without a second thought, glancing in his direction for a moment. “Have you ever been in the middle of the ocean during a storm? It is the best feeling in the world.”

For a moment, her eyes fluttered shut and she remembered the chaos of the last storm they sailed through. Jacques nearly fell off the starboard bow, as a crack of thunder sounded in the distance. There was no other way to feel pure adrenaline coursing through one’s veins, than when the only protection between you and the unforgivable ocean was a ship.

If it went down, then so did you.

Owen shuddered in overdramatic horror. “Once. On the way over from Ireland, a tempest hit. I thought God Himself had decided to smite the damn ship, I thought I was gonna bloody die. It felt like it, anyway. I was hurling half me guts out in the corner of the ship for the next two days.”

She snorted. “How brave of you.”

“One of the older women was lookin’ at me like I was supposed to comfort her throughout the whole feckin’ thing!” Owen shook his head with an animated vigor, as if he had been dying to tell this story to _someone_ willing to listen and see his perspective. “Christ Almighty, I was lookin’ out for _me own_ skin. If she wanted gallantry, what in all hell was she doin’ going to the goddamn _colonies_?”

Rana laughed out loud, then. With sincerity. And _that_ was what she was surprised about. Perhaps it was the way he told the story, or his brutal honesty in that he was selfish and cowardly in the face of a large storm, but she was bent over laughing against the bar counter for at least a minute and a half. Owen looked proud that he had managed such a feat.

“I see you are not much of a sailor,” she said as her laughter began to die down.

“Oh, Jesus, Mary ‘n Joseph _no_!” he cried, eyes widening in mock horror. “I’m like a cat, y’see. I prefer land that’s nice and stable. None of that seafaring nonsense. I’m a man  who prefers my business where a shark can’t spring up and swallow me whole.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You seemed so eager to join my crew the other day.”

Owen’s go-to smirk flashed across his face. “That’s because you ‘n me would be on a ship in the middle of the ocean for God knows how long. It would be _much_ easier for me to convince you to let me bed you that way.”

Rana threw her head back in another laugh, this time more to insult him than anything else. “First of all, what makes you think _you_ would be doing the bedding?”

“Ahh, it’d be a struggle for power, would it?” The smirk grew that much more pronounced. She could see the mental image playing out from behind the dark green of his eyes, accented by an impish glint that, on anyone else, would have earned him a punch to the face. And Owen Awley was the type to have a vivid imagination for these sorts of things, she believed. “Somehow, I don’t have any moral qualms with that, O Pirate Goddess.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she said, “You are certainly determined.”

An innocent shrug. “Most would say I’m just a stubborn bastard with too much time on his hands.”

She nodded in full agreement. “That, too.”

Rana was surprised to find that he was not as irritating as she assumed he would be. He would make advances, yes, but at this point they were more in jest than anything.  It was almost an unspoken joke between the both of them; he would make some sort of advance and she would either shoot him down flat or completely ignore it.

“Oi, Northman!” called Owen, beckoning Alf over from his usual dark corner with a wave of his hand. He came over to the both of them and he asked, “You’ve been glarin’ at me for about two hours, now. You want me to buy you a pint or somethin’ to eat? The least I can do for makin’ you stare at me pretty face for so long.”

Alf regarded him with his telltale blank, unnerving expression. “You wish to buy me food?”

“ _That_ would be a grave mistake,” Rana interjected. “Alf could eat his way through an entire village and still be hungry. He will eat you into poverty.”

“I eat a man once,” said Alf, and Owen’s gaze shifted from Rana back to the straight-faced Viking, completely unsure as to whether or not that was intended to be a joke. That was the beauty of knowing Alf better than anyone else. Not to say that he was not as terrifying as he appeared: he was. But he took secret joy in scaring the pants off of those who did not know when he was joking.

Owen laughed despite the fact that he looked deeply uncomfortable. “Ha! That was a funny jest, that.”

And with a face as serious as the plague Alf replied, “I do not jest.”

Rana _tried_ , tried with _all_ of her might to keep her composure intact, but the moment Owen looked as if he was going to piss himself in reaction to this terrifying man, she let out such an uproarious laugh that many in the pub looked to see what the ruckus was about. She slammed her hand on the bar stool three times before losing her balance when attempting to clutch her aching sides, toppling to the ground and laughing even more upon impact.

“Oh, _God_ ─ I _can’t breathe_! Your _face_!” she cried out and soon enough, Owen was laughing with her, succumbing quickly to the contagious fits of cackles bubbling from the filthy pub floor.

Even Alf cracked a bit of a smile.

* * *

          “You’re sulking more than usual, boy.”

          Connor looked up from the meat that he had just cooked for himself and Achilles. “I do not know what you mean.”

          The old man seemed unconvinced. “You didn’t make any progress with the smuggling.” The scowl that flashed across his face answered Achilles’ question better than any verbal response. “What happened?”

          “Nothing you need concern yourself about,” he said. Connor had no desire to tell Achilles about his latest encounter and mishap with The Woman. He had no idea why this kept happening, but it always involved him embarrassing himself or becoming incapacitated at her hand. The last thing he needed was for Achilles to doubt his skill and resolve even more than usual. He already believed him to be a boy in over his head ─ Connor saw no reason to add fuel to the fire.

          On top of that, his head still mildly ached from the fist it took.

          “Taken to licking your wounds in private, have you?”

          He scowled. “I will figure out a way to solve this problem─!”

          “Spare me the stories, Connor,” said Achilles, locking eyes with him. “Just do what you need to do before you run out of time. Washington won’t continue to stay alive when you dawdle.”

* * *

          There were times when Jacques was uncomfortable, and Rana could usually tell because he would lean over and divulge his suspicions in French. For added security, he would always say. They were standing together surveying the latest shipment of tea to be smuggled into her warehouse. It was Alf who had suggested to Rana to oversee how the Templars did business with her men, to ensure everything went well. Rana considered herself a shrewd businesswoman in most things, able to predict treachery rather easily. The fickle nature of men’s hearts was a familiar topic for her. And yet she did not suspect she would be deceived that day.

          “I do not like the look of that man,” Jacques said in his native tongue, pointing to a Templar agent overseeing the trade. One of her men, Johan, was to pay this agent his cut of the gold and bring the rest over to her. Johan was a decent enough worker, an immigrant from some unpronounceable German village. Although he was a bit of a coward, he got the job done, and that was all that mattered.

 He and the men he had hired on her behalf stood at an “ignored” edge of the dock, where smuggling most often took place. Any guard who knew of its existence need only notice the glint of some shiny coin to turn a blind eye.

          Rana could see the worry in his eyes and slapped a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder. “You are too paranoid, my friend.”

          “Someone has to be,” he returned. “ _You_ are too arrogant for it. My paranoia has saved your life more than once, you know.”

          “Is it not the first mate’s job to make sure the Captain doesn’t kill herself?” she said with a broad grin.

          He chuckled. “I suppose.”

          “Uh.” Both of them looked behind them to see Firebrace standing there, and she was reminded that he had been there the entire time. “You two mind speakin’ the King’s English in front of me?”

          “We are talking about how much of an incompetent sailor you are,” Jacques quipped, throwing Firebrace a teasing glance. “And how we intend to throw you overboard when you least expect it.”

          The boy made a face at him. “Har har.”

          “Everything looks fine to me,” said Rana then, bored and turning on her heel. “I am going to the pub.”

          “It’s the middle of the day, Cap’n,” Firebrace remarked. “You gonna start drinking _now_?”

          “It is the evening somewhere in the world,” she informed him with a dismissive wave of her hand, walking away from the two of them. With any luck, she would return to the pub and find Alf threatening people again. It always amused her to end when idiotic men with a clear death wish tried to rile him up.

          Firebrace commandeered her attention once more. “Is that normal behavior, Cap’n?”

          Rana glanced back to where they stood, and then to where the smuggling transaction would take place. An argument had broken out between Johan and the Templar agent. Johan held a box of tea in his hands before the Templar smacked it out of his hands, and she watched it smash to the ground. Despite this, he seemed smug, growing more arrogant as Johan’s anger mounted. Firebrace made a move to intervene with the argument, but she stopped him with a hand to her chest.

          “Learn to watch a situation before you charge,” she told him, eyes narrowing in suspicion when she turned her attention back to the dispute. Rana told them both to stay behind before she advanced, crouching behind a large stack of crates to listen in.

          “This is the last time I’ll tell you to relinquish the goods,” said the Templar.

          “Captain Rana did not inform me of this!” Johan cried. “I do not believe you have her sanction, _she would have told me_.”

          A scoff. “I don’t take my orders from that jumped up bitch. Now, give me all the tea on this ship or I’ll run ya through. Orders from Hickey himself.”

          Rana exhaled slowly through her nose, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. She had begun to drift away from the Templars due to the establishment of her own personal connections. She might have known that this alliance of convenience was short-lived, but perhaps not _so_ short-lived. Surprise was not the emotion she felt; moreso disappointment with a mixture of annoyance. Huddled against those crates,  she began formulating her own type of vengeance.

          Rana emerged from behind the boxes and stepped front of Johan with a smirk on her face. “Betrayal, is it? After all the coin you Templars have because of me?”

          “Hickey has no further need of you,” the agent replied with a shrug. “I don’t give the orders, I just carry them out.”

          Her eyes narrowed. “Oh? So he thinks he can toss me aside like some lowly whore when he pleases?”

          The agent smirked and advanced on her, unsheathing the knife at his belt. Rough fingers grabbed onto her chin and he said, “You would have done better to become a whore than parade around, playing the man. Far less dangerous for you, love. You should have listened to your father and been a good girl.”

           He left a noticeable slice on her cheek. It stung, but she chose not to flinch in response. No need to feed the man’s already poisonous views on women. “It is _because_ I listened to my father that I’m here.” She paused, letting her hand slip down at the knife on her belt in silence. “But such stories are far too personal for so immediate a meeting, no? I will be happy to discuss it with you later.”

          “Later?”

          She jammed the knife in the side of his neck. The man let out a sickening gurgle, the warmth of his blood staining her hands as she buried the blade into the flesh. “In the next life? Most definitely.”

          That stunt got her noticed by one of the guards, screaming for her to stop in her tracks and surrender without a fuss. Of course, such a request was foolish, and Rana was quick to bolt in the direction of the pub.

* * *

          “What has happened?” Alf was in her face the moment she stepped through the door of the pub. There was a noticeable knit in his blond brows, and she resisted the urge to mock him for having the look of a forlorn mother hen. “Why did you allow someone to get that close, captain?”

          She held her hands up. “ _Relax_ , Alf. It is a scratch. No need to get your knickers in a twist.”

          He sighed heavily. “Once again … I must advise you to be wiser in your dealings with others. If your attacker had aimed his blade any lower, you would have died. Painfully. You are too sure of yourself in battle.”

          Rana rolled her eyes. “Either way, you will be happy to know that I dealt with him in the exact way you have described. I am alive. Now stop pouting at me like a wife and listen to what I have to say. We have much to discuss.”

          Jacques, Firebrace, Rana and Alf all sat around a round table at the back of the pub and disputed what they were going to do about this treachery. With the Templars on her back, things would become complicated quickly. They had a presence in the city. It did not help that she had publically murdered one of their agents.

          “Your temper got the best of you,” said Jacques, shaking his head. “That was … very foolish, Rana. You kill a man in broad daylight, and not only anger the Templars but the _guards_ as well?”

          “I have warned you of your temper often,” Alf added. “But it is a rare thing when you listen to me.”

          “ _Yes_ , I made a mistake. Clap me in irons _later_ , yes? As of now, we must decide what to do.” Rana downed a swig of her ale as they brainstormed. They needed to bide their time in Boston until her ship was done being outfitted and repaired to the perfection she deserved.

          Firebrace piped in, “Well, who don’t fancy the Templars?”

          Rana scoffed. “I am sure more people than I can count.”

          “Did you not tell me that Native was an Assassin?” Jacques asked. “Who better to broach this problem with? Their existence is dedicated to killing them, _non_?”

          Connor? God help them if he was their only option. “We do not require the aid of some self-righteous boy living a heroic fantasy, I _assure_ ─”

          “And what other option do we have?” he countered. “The Templars are finished with you. You instigated them when you killed that man, my friend. This is not your city or your land: you have precious few allies to call upon. If they wish you gone, they can see to it.”

          She hated being backed up into a corner. Exhaling sharply, she said, “How are we even sure he would _agree_ to helping me?”

          “You give him information on combating the Templars,” the Haitian deadpanned, raising an eyebrow as if it were insultingly obvious. “He solves a problem and fixes your own in the process.”

          Firebrace snorted. “Either way, far as I can tell, Cap’n? You’re a type-a woman not many men can refuse.”

          She snickered at that comment, diffusing the tension. “You learn quicker than I thought, Firebrace.”

         

 

         

         

           

 

          


	9. Pride

          Through careful prodding and the keeping open of one’s ears, Rana learned that an Assassin by the name of Stephane Chapheau was right under her nose. If anyone could pinpoint her to Connor, it would be him. Jacques’ propensity toward information gathering came in handy for her once more, as he managed to pinpoint that the man was both a chef and working in a pub on the other side of town. A disgruntled Frenchman, he was a known dissenter of the British presence in the colonies and she’d heard that he had taken a butcher’s cleaver to their necks more than once. Definitely a man worth recruiting: Connor had done well to get him on the side of the Assassins.

          She stepped into the pub late in the evening to see him angrily ranting to one of his customers, the thick accent a dead giveaway.

          “Are you _Monsieur_ Chapheau?” she asked, breaking him away from his tirade.

          The man looked her up and down once. “This depends. Do I owe you money?”

          “I think you would remember if you owed me money,” said Rana, unable to suppress the lilt that floated into her voice. Having grown up in a whorehouse, she learned quickly that a man was more willing to cooperate if he perceived that a woman found him attractive. She didn’t: she thought he looked unkempt, smelly and sweaty, but he did not need to know this just yet.

          He nodded in agreement. “This is true. Wait ... I think I know your face.” Rana raised an eyebrow before he remembered. “Ah! You are the she-pirate the guards are looking for, _non_? Rana Demir? You have quite a bounty on your head.”

          “They have a wanted poster already?” she demanded, turning to give both Jacques and Alf poignant looks. “Get one for me, Alf.”

          “Captain.”

The large Northman was out the door in a matter of moments, and she returned her attention to the matter at hand. “I am looking for someone … and I believe you might be able to help me.”

“What makes you think this, Miss Demir?”

She raised a hand. “Captain Demir, if you please. And an Assassin would know where his leader wanders, would he not?”

Chapheau regarded her with surprise, then. “You run with the Templars, or so I have heard. Why in all hell do you think I would tell you where Connor is?”

“Why do you think there are wanted posters?” she asked. “I killed one of their agents ─ they were about to double cross me and steal my money. Unfortunately, I was not smart enough to kill him when the sun was down.”

He laughed. “ _C’était stupide_.” The last thing she needed was for this unwashed French-Canadian bastard to feel the need to laugh at her. She exhaled sharply and reiterated her question. Following a poignant look,  he said, “So now that they have shot you in the back of the head you wish to unleash Connor on them like a rabid dog?”

          Rana crossed her arms across her chest, her jaw setting in a hard line. “I have information he would find valuable; our goals are aligned. He wants to deal with them, and I would like them dealt with.”

          “Why not deal with them yourself, if you are so powerful an adversary?” he countered, now simply being facetious with her.

          The thin thread of patience she had woken up with that morning was beginning to fray. “Do you mock me or are you simply trying to see how far I can withstand this to decide when to stick a knife between your eyes?”

          Before he could counter such a threat, the door to the bar burst open and Firebrace all but sprinted up to her, out of breath and with a face drenched in sweat. Balancing himself on his knees for a moment, he tried for what felt like ages to find the strength to tell her what was going on before she demanded, “ _What_? What has happened? Is the town burning? Is there a princess that must be rescued? _What is it, boy_!?”

          “Templars,” he forced out at last, “ransackin’ the … warehouse, they are! I think I ‘eard one of them say they was gonna burn it!”

          Rana felt her heart plunge directly into her stomach, the fires of vicious temper rushing up her throat. Swearing in her native tongue, she rushed out of the building and found an unattended horse. She needed Alf ─ she would not suffer this insult without spilling at least a gallon of blood in retaliation.

“Where is Alf?” she roared to no one in particular. “Someone find him and _tell him what is happening_! Jacques, Firebrace; find him _NOW_.”

She did not even give them time to discuss the subject before she kicked the horse into full speed, hooves pounding through the streets of Boston at dangerous speeds. Many were leaping out of the way, shaking their fists at the madwoman atop the horse, but she paid them absolutely no mind. All she could see was a violent shade of red, fantasies of the ways she would kill all responsible flooding into her head and clouding her judgment and reasoning. To use her as they pleased and toss her aside like a lowborn whore? To infiltrate her property, to steal her belongings and then burn it to the ground as some sort of twisted example?

They would pay.

The warehouse was on the other side of town. Despite her anger, she was baffled that they would attempt such an assault out in the open. Did they think they could pass it off as some sort of accident? She had no explosives in her warehouse; no one was foolish enough to keep tea and other such commodities near something that could set ablaze at a moment’s notice. However, it was likely that the right people had been paid to turn a blind eye to such destruction. Odd how frustrating such an otherwise-convenient thing could be when turned against her.

The lapses in judgment she had been suffering were taking a noticeable toll on her usual confident outlook. Failure always managed to trigger the impulsive behavior that got either her or her crew in trouble. It was another one of the lovely habits that had been burned into her in that damned brothel. Fatima did not tolerate failure from any of the girls, much less the child she was looking after in the name of an investment.

Rana leapt off of her horse, positioning herself behind a tall stack of crates. She could men talking from within, moving her smuggled goods in and out.  Every step they took filled her with fire to burn down a village. Luckily, she intended to release that fire on every man that dared set foot on her property. Steeling her resolve, she motioned to storm ahead and start stabbing any fleshy surfaces. Her advance screeched to a halt when she felt a pair of strong arms wrap around her waist and force her backward. A hand clamped over her mouth to prevent her from crying out.

She struggled relentlessly against her captor, whoever the hell it was, but there was enough power in the arms that were pulling her back that she felt like a rag doll, thrashing in vain, legs kicking. Rana was pinned against the wall of a nearby building, her back stuck against the bricks. Squinting in the darkness, she made out a pair of furious eyes.

“Are you touched in the head?” he demanded, and her eyebrows furrowed together in a mixture of shock and rage. The least likely of people was staring back at her, regarding her as if he had just personally prevented a suicide attempt. “Running into that building alone would see you killed!”

“What in all hell?” she barked when Connor removed his large hand from her mouth, thrashing against his grip. And just like that, all thoughts of the conversation she intended to have with him were long gone. The hands clamped on her forearms were preventing her from going anywhere. “Let go of me, you _bastard_! _This is not your concern!_ ”

The frown on his face deepened. “You would sacrifice yourself for some smuggled goods and a warehouse?”

Her eyebrows shot up, and she attempted to throw an arrogant laugh right in his face. “ _Sacrifice myself_? I can handle a few grunts. Let _go_ of me and I will show you how it is done.”

“There are over 20 armed men in that warehouse,” he deadpanned, unfazed by her bravado. “I have seen your fighting style. You are best in open spaces that allow you to move freely, to confuse and anger them. In such closed quarters, you would be overwhelmed in minutes. They would pin you down and you would be finished.”

Rana scowled. It was not often that someone she had spoken to all of four or five times ordained to lay out her odds of survival. And it was also unsettling to hear him dissect her fighting style so accurately. “The fact that you think you can stop me─!”

“I _am_ stopping you,” he interjected. Unfortunately for her, he was right. Connor restrained her with little effort. Rana’s original advantage over him was a combination of surprise and speed; both of which she had now been deprived of.

“I am _not_ going to suffer this insult,” she snarled then. “You do not _understand_ what this will do to my reputation!”

Connor exhaled, shaking his head. “This is foolishness. You risk yourself for nothing but your own pride. Is your _reputation_ really worth more than your life to you?”

“You lecture me when you know nothing about me or my world,” she retorted, eyes narrowing, lips turning up into a scowl. “Reputation is _everything_ to someone like me! What respect would be shown to me if I allowed such an act?”

“You must _earn_ respect for it to last,” he replied with ease.

Her jaw set in a hard, impatient line before she said, “The laws of my world are written by men. Either I take it by force or I ─ am ─ _nothing_.”

Connor paused, scrutinizing her face for a few moments before he replied, “You live in a harsh world.”

 “And that harshness will not serve you well unless you unhand me,” said Rana, her hand still trying with a tireless ferocity to reach one of the many knives on her person .

“I saved your life,” he deadpanned, “and now you threaten mine?”

“You interfere where you are not welcome,” she snapped. The famous composure she upheld in most situations was shattered into unsalvageable pieces. It had been a terrible day for her and if pushed to  her limits, she would start killing everything in her path.

“You would have been _overwhelmed_!” Connor cried, reiterating his previous point, an impatient spike in his tone. So fixated were those two on arguing with each other that they forgot to notice the soldier now advancing on them both.

“ _Oi_! I found the bitch, she’s over ‘ere, skulkin’ around all suspicious-like!”

He sprung into action with the speed of a crack of lightning, grabbing the man by his head and smashing that head into the nearby wall. It left a mess, but that was the least of her concern. Rana’s eyes grew in astonishment. The complete lack of hesitation in so brutal an attack was what floored her with this man.

However, that was a question for another time, as more of them began to sprint forward.

“Fuck,” she breathed and felt his grip on her loosen just enough, and moved a hand to unsheathe one of the daggers at her belt. The soldier had alerted the attention of at least five of his comrades, and more were to follow in a matter of moments. This night had gone very sour and she was not about to let herself get killed, or worse, captured. If there was one thing men like those soldiers loved, it was putting a woman in what they believed to be her place.

Connor gave her no opportunity to steel herself for battle. “Come with me!”

“ _What_ ─?”

“Unless you want to die, it would be best to _come with me_.” Unconsciously, her hand wrapped protectively around the key dangling at her neck. _Promise me_. Swearing under her breath, she gestured for him to lead the way. They could already hear the cries of the men in pursuit, hot on their trail.

Connor wove through the back alleys of the city with ease, with the experience of someone who had either lived or frequented the city for a good portion of his life. It was slightly comforting to be around someone who knew what they were doing. Or appeared to; but she assumed a man who could unblinkingly smash another’s head into brick knew some semblance of what he was doing.

Hurriedly they ran down a dark path, annoyed to discover that there were soldiers on either side. For the moment, they were blocked, and the sound of footsteps grew ever nearer to  their position. Connor told her to wait with a silent hand gesture and appeared to wrack his brains for some sort of idea, but their time was running out quicker and quicker and this was no time for carefully laid out plans of escape.

“I have an idea.”

Acting on pure impulse, Rana grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and dragged him into the darkest corner of the alley. Situating her back against the wall, she closed a considerable amount of distance between their mouths and instructed him to act natural in a calm voice. Now to answer her musing on whether or not his mouth was as soft as it looked. Giving him no time reply, she forced their mouths together and heard the sharp intake of breath, his muscles locking down in alarm.

 In the moment, it seemed like a logical solution: it would minimize them both breathing and also create an awkward situation for their pursuers. The average hired sword for Templar dirty work would not assume that their targets would be up against a wall and going at it just before the clock struck midnight. The shadows would skew what little of their features were visible. After all, the colonies attracted all manner of people. Why not the queer types to publically display their affection on a cold, dark night?

Connor did not adjust well. He was stiff, tense, _clearly_ inexperienced and arguably entirely inept in this field. Rana adapted with necessary fervor, no stranger to men who didn’t know their way around a woman’s mouth, letting her fingers  wander up to knot in his hair in an attempt to get him to relax. The deception would fail if he looked like he was fighting off fish with his lips.

The men began to walk past them, muttering to themselves about where the targets could have gotten off to so quickly. Thankfully, he was smarter than she thought he would be and began to respond … adequately. It was still uncomfortable for all involved; although she was grateful he had stopped doing that horrid movement with his mouth and left everything to her.

There was an inexplicable smoky taste to his mouth that fascinated her, almost taking the edge off of the situation. It ended once the men were gone and she pushed herself off of him, ducking out from beneath him. Connor stood in the same position for what felt like an hour, still stiff as a board before he turned, eyebrows furrowed together as he appeared deeply troubled. Even in the darkness, she could make out the dark color tinting his cheeks.

Rana scoffed. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, you act as if I am the fiend who has so cruelly stolen your virgini─!” She froze in the middle of her sentence, an incredulous smile stretching across her face. “Was … that the first time you have ever kissed a woman?”

And in that instant, he went from uncomfortable to defensive. “I do not see what that has to do with the situation─!”

Just like that, the destruction of her warehouse was out of her mind and she became too preoccupied with laughing at the growing impatient scowl on his face. “Good _God_ , Connor. You can break a man’s skull against a brick wall but _kissing_ is where you draw the line?”

“We are supposed to be hiding, and you are doing a terrible job of it,” he said instead, walking with a pronounced huff to make sure the coast was clear.

She snickered despite herself and found the idea baffling. Connor was not the most handsome man to ever live, but he was definitely tolerable. The height and broadness of him could make a simpering colonial girl feel safe and protected. As many were incapable of doing so themselves, a man like Connor should have found himself a woman in no time at all. But then, charm and wit seemed to fly over his head. From what she could understand, he couldn’t talk a prostitute into bed.

Or was he one of those types that put the protection of the land far above his physical needs? One of those _extreme_ types. Going 20-something years without a good rutting was outright cruelty, in her mind. Or maybe chastity was a requirement for the warriors of his people ─ all possibilities were equally disturbing for someone like Rana.

They maneuvered their way down a deserted street, and while waiting for Connor to make sure all was well, she noticed something pinned to a wall. With eyebrow raised, she ripped it off and surveyed it in the moonlight.

“Oh _no_ ,” she said with a pronounced frown.

Connor was at her side instantly, poised for attack. “What? Do you hear them?”

She brandished the wanted poster in his face. “Do you see this? They have _butchered_ me. They didn’t even get my nose right!”

“There are at least 15 men  after you,” he deadpanned, an incredulous knit in his brow. “And _this_ is your biggest concern?”

“That is easy for you say!” she exclaimed haughtily. “I have seen your wanted posters and you look _fantastically_ frightening for the average colonist.”

Exhaling sharply, Connor turned his attention back toward the men still skulking around the area and ignored the pirate now tossing her wanted poster with disgust to the ground. They moved away from the alley and back onto the main street, Rana suggesting that her men would likely be waiting for her back at the Badger, and that they could fight off any guards. Not that they would be stupid enough to mount an assault on a place of business.

They were not 50 yards from the Badger when they heard a sharp intake of breath from behind them. A man who had the look of a scout opened his mouth to begin screaming and Rana acted in a fit of adrenaline. He managed to force out a _they’re over here_ before she sent a knife flying into his jugular. However, it was too late at that point.

Six men rushed into the clearing, and their task was to dispatch them as quickly as possible before more could be alerted to the ruckus. Rana’s pent up aggression  was aching for a medium of release, and this proved an opportunity that had a predatory grin stretched across her face.

“Shall we split them down the middle?” she told Connor. Looking them up and down she added, “Figuratively and physically.”

“It’s the woman we want,” the apparent leader of the troupe of men told the rest of them. These were no ordinary soldiers; they were hired mercenaries. And particularly ruthless ones.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Who the fuck sent you?”

“You’ve made enemies, love,” the man said. “All this piracy’s finally come to bite you in the arse. Dangerous men who don’t like some uppity cunt takin’ away their hard-earned money and killin’ their men.”

She scoffed. “And you’re one of them?”

“Nah,” he replied. “I’m just another sell sword that likes getting paid good coin and putting bitches like you in their place.”

“ _Yes,_ well.” Rana’s fingers flexed as her hand reached up to stroke the hilt of the dagger at her belt. “There’s a reason they don’t try to take me down themselves, boys. If you continue down this course of action you will only find your cocks lobbed off.”

The leader turned his attention to Connor.  “You don’t have to die for this bitch. Turn the other cheek, pretend you didn’t see us and we’ll pretend we didn’t see you.”

Rana’s jaw flexed and she prepared herself for a solo run. It would take some maneuvering and _fast_ footwork, but taking on six men would be simpler than taking on twenty of them. It would be nothing personal, she decided. Who in their right mind would fight skilled men for someone who  had, twice now, been a source of pain or annoyance?

“That is not going to happen,” Connor said, flooring her. She looked at him in a moment of disbelief, lips parted in confusion.

The mercenary scoffed. “Have it your way. All you savages have got the same martyr complex, anyway.”

Rana snapped her attention back  to the problem, at hand and without a word more, marched up and buried one of her daggers deep in the chest of one of his men. As he collapsed to the ground with a gurgle, she looked at the leader and said, “I am the only savage you need worry yourself with, you sanctimonious fuck.”

Unsheathing the sword at her side, the battle begun in earnest. Steel met steel in a ring that resounded around the dark neighborhood. The large ax strapped to the leader’s back was brandished with pride. His movements were cumbersome and slow, but there was enough power to slice her arms off if she got too close.  She was so focused on avoiding the leader’s ax that another man came up from behind and attempted to lodge his sword somewhere in her body.

Teeth grinding, she briefly swung in his direction and landed the heel of her boot in his gut. Another rushed forward, grabbing her by the ankle and threw her backward so that she slammed into the hard ground and rolled for a few moments, before sliding to a stop.

“ _Oi_!” the leader cried. “Orders are to take her _alive_.”

Back and muscles aching, she let out a long list of swears under her breath. Connor was preoccupied with one particularly fierce swordsman, but threw her a glance with concern knit into his brow. She was up on her feet before he could do anything about it, smashing a fist into the jugular of one off the men near her and burying his own sword in his gut.

Wiping sweat from her lip, a broad smirk flashed across her face as she said, “More’s the pity for you if you cannot deliver a killing blow.”

A man jabbed his sword in the direction of her arm, which she sidestepped only to find that he had whirled and locked his arms around her waist. Rana struggled for half a moment before she angled her head and slammed the back of it into the man’s face, disorientating him just when another was lunging at them both with a dagger.

She slipped away just quickly enough to watch him stab his own man in the face, bloodcurdling screams bouncing off the walls.

Rana then turned her attention to the man with the ax, who was now charging at her like a rabid elephant. She  waited for him to get close enough before leaping out of the way, riding on the tips of her toes until she was facing his back and sliced a horizontal slash that elicited a roar of pain.

“Come here, you bitch,” he said through his teeth. “I can see why they paid us so much coin to see you dealt with.”

She scoffed, throwing him a pout. “And now you won’t be able to use it.”

The insatiable urge to punch him straight to his face was overwhelming, but she knew better than to get within range of that damned ax. He charged at her again and as she leapt out of the way, Connor dashed forward and palmed the man’s ears. With a groan, he stumbled backward, disorientated.

Rana stood to her feet. “You did not know that move before.”

“I learn by observation,” was his only reply, yanking the ax out of the mercenary’s hands and tossing it onto the ground with a resounding clang.

Cracking her knuckles, she made her way over to the leader and sat on his stomach, straddling either side of him. Pushing one of her knives against his throat, she said, “Give me one good reason I should not cut out your tongue as we speak.”

“Threaten me all you like,” he replied with teeth clenched. “You don’t scare me, you cunt.”

“I should,” she said, fingers tightening around the hilt of her knife. “I scare your employer enough to send poorly skilled men after me. Give me a name so that I may return the favor.”

He spat at her. “Go to hell.”

Rana pulled the man’s head off the ground by his collar, pushed the tip of the knife deeper into his skin, eyes narrowed. “Would you _really_ die for whoever hired you? Because I could cut your throat right here; you could bleed out on the floor, make a mess. And then they will hire someone else to take care of me …” She leaned forward, a smirk playing on her lips as she added, “and fail again.”

She wanted to convey that he was cornered, the glint of a cat with a mouse between its paw in her eyes.

A dark figure loomed five feet away from them, but she could tell by the sheer height of him that he was no foe. Looking up from her work, she asked, “And where the hell were you?”

Alf stepped into the light, his jacket splattered with blood. “Keeping the rest off of your back.”

“Well, I have a task for you,” she said, lifting herself off of him and gesturing to the man lying on the ground. “I want you to get information from him. Who he works for, what their motives are. Everything.”

He nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

Rana shot the man on the ground a look of brief pity. “This is your last chance to speak to me. As you will find that Alf is far less, ah,” she paused, purposefully searching for the most accurate word, “ _accommodating_.”

“You think that’ll frighten me, aye?” he demanded. “I fought in the Seven Years’ War, _girl_. I’ve seen the worst men have to offer in this wretched world, so don’t think some pale giant will break my resolve any further.”

Storm-like and silent, Alf swept to the mercenary’s side and pulled him to his feet by the collar of his jacket. “Your petty land wars mean nothing to me, runt.”

“Do it elsewhere,” Rana said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I have no stomach for such barbarism right now.”

“Captain.” Just as quickly as he appeared, Alf was gone with the mercenary leader in tow. With a soft exhale, she turned her attention back to Connor, who had yet to leave. He had gone above and beyond and she had yet to figure out why. What would compel to stick his neck out. Was it coin he wanted? She remained unsure of his motives, and it frustrated her to no end.

Following a pause, Connor said, “It seems it is not only the Templars that want your head.”

She scoffed. “If there is one thing that my way of life has taught me, it is that enemies are simply a sign that you sail in the right direction.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. She was sure he had no shortage of enemies facing him down on a daily basis, and would do well to see it as a good omen. Pissing people off will happen to a man that wants to save the world.

“It appears I am once again in your debt,” she said. “Go to the Sleeping Badger  tomorrow evening. I have information that will prove useful for you.”

“Information about what?” he asked.

“The Templar smuggling ring.”

Connor crossed his arms across his chest. “And why can you not tell me now?”

“Because I need a fucking drink and a bath.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw man, I'm sorry for the delay, guys. Things have just been rough in the real world side of things and it's hard to find motivation to just sit down and write. But thank you for the kind words and kudos, and I hope you'll stay with me throughout the entirety of this story!


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